


avalanche in the city

by virgohotspot



Series: wear me down [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellarke Baby, Christmas Smut, Divorced Bellarke, Exes, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Porn with Feelings, Post-Break Up, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgohotspot/pseuds/virgohotspot
Summary: All Bellamy wants is to spend his daughter's first Christmas with her. By some Christmas miracle, a snowstorm grants him just that. Along with his ex-wife, Clarke.Or, Divorced!Bellarke spends their daughter's first Christmas together, and reflect on their relationship.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: wear me down [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063127
Comments: 20
Kudos: 186





	avalanche in the city

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to read the first instalment to understand this. But it's super short, and may fill in some gaps! Check it out if you'd like:)

_December 22  
6:32pm_

Maisie gawks as her bare hand smacks into the snow patterning the handle of the balcony. Her tiny palm imprints into the snow, thankfully covered in tiny, turquoise mittens, an early Christmas gift from her aunt. She lifts her arm, gazing at the snow that’s now littering her snowsuit before angling her body in her father’s hold. Bellamy smiles down at her, clutching his eight month old daughter tighter to his chest, just as she attempts to bring the snow to her mouth.

“Ah, no,” Bellamy warns. Maisie’s eyes widen curiously at her father, pausing mid-action. “Yucky.” She takes this as a good enough explanation, twisting her gaze back towards the sky.

Bellamy watches the fall of snowflakes reflect in the brown of his daughter’s eyes, a small, sad smile reflecting on his features. He presses a kiss against the softness of her chubby cheek, blowing a raspberry as he pulls away just to hear her giggle in delight. Maisie leans her head against his coat, but never tears her eyes away from the falling snow that lays across the city. It coats the buildings and decorates the pavement, a thick sheet of pure, clean snow patterning the city just a couple of days before Christmas. The colorful array of Christmas lights hanging off businesses and homes reflect off of the snowflakes, making it shine even in the evening hours of the day.

Since bundling her up and taking her out to his balcony over an hour ago, Maisie has barely taken her eyes off the snow. He originally only did it to tire her out before he put her to sleep, but seeing her eyes light up and toothless grin spread across her face made it difficult for him to haul her back instead. Maisie probably wouldn’t protest if Bellamy did carry her back inside, but that’s because she’s the most perfect baby in the world. He wants his daughter to enjoy her first Christmas, one full of snow and colorful lights, and he wants her to be able to have that joy with him.

Clarke’s supposed to come pick her up in a couple of hours. As a part of her their custody agreement, they alternate holidays, and just by the struck of luck, Clarke had got Christmas. Bellamy supposes its only fair, since he had Maisie for Thanksgiving, but he could really care less about any holiday that isn’t Christmas. But this was something that he and Clarke had agreed on before Maisie was even born, and he really had no right to go back on it now, a couple days before Christmas.

It does cast a grey over his holiday, though. Last year was already grim because Clarke had refused to spend it with him – granted, they had just got divorced and were still adjusting to the news of very unexpected her pregnancy, but he didn’t even have the chance to celebrate the holidays with his sister. Octavia spent last year with her boyfriend in his hometown and intends to do the same this holiday, with little to no thought of her big brother, as per usual. This year, he will also be alone, because had stupidly agreed to let Clarke have their daughter for Christmas.

Bellamy sighs deeply, finally tearing his gaze away from his daughter to glance up at the night sky. It becomes dark a lot earlier during this time of year, with the stars twinkling in the sky before the clock strikes seven. They’re difficult to locate through the thick clouds ruminating about, but if he squints hard enough, he can find star that dazzles bright enough for the human eye to see. An overwhelming feeling of disdain plagues him, paired with the immense loss that riddles his chest when he glances down at Maisie.

“If I could have it my way,” Bellamy mutters out to the universe, tucking his nose into the crook of his daughter’s neck. “We’d be all together for Christmas.”

Maisie gurgles in reply, too preoccupied with her obsession with snowflakes. Bellamy watches her thrust her hand out to collect more snow. Smiling softly, he haphazardly holds her a little closer to the railing so she can brush her mittens against a fresh patch of snow. Eagerly, Maisie swipes her hand against it, much more confidentially than she did last time. The metal of the railing echoes when she smacks her hand against it, surprising Maisie, but earning a loud bout of laughter in response. She proudly showcases her snow covered mittens to her father, who leans in to brush his nose against hers.

His daughter yawns in his face, her heated breath contrasting the cool winds of the winter air. Maisie drops her head down to rest against his shoulder, a sigh dreamily escaping her little lips. Bellamy hugs her a little closer to him, resting his cheek atop of her head and casting his gaze back up towards the sky. It falls with steady snowflakes, and the singular, twinkling snow is gone. An immense sense of dread clouds his chest and pricks at his eyes. He sucks in a breath, trying to have any remanence of tears dissipate. He plants a soft kiss on the top of his daughter’s little, matching turquoise hat and turns towards the sliding door of his balcony.

“Alright, love,” Bellamy coos. “Let’s get you inside.”

Bellamy steps out of the cold to his newly heated bedroom. His apartment doesn’t offer much luxuries, so he had to ensure that proper heating and conditioning were implemented before Maisie was born. He slides the door shut behind him, blocking out any cool air and sounds of the city, waltzing over to the bed as the television murmurs in the room over.

Laying Maisie down on the bed, he strips her out of her snowsuit. Maisie, because she’s absolutely perfect, lays on her back with complaint, staring up at her father with a toothless smile. Sometimes, she’ll kick her little legs, like when Bellamy removes her snow pants, but it’s just to let him know she’s awake. Bellamy grins as his heart soars with joy, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s knee before removing her hat and revealing her thick cluster of curls. He lightly runs his hand through them, Maisie leaning her head up into his touch. His hand could almost engulf her whole face because of how tiny she is. Yet, she reaches both her hands up, wrapping one around his pinky and the other around his thumb, attempting to bring his palm down to her.

He wonders sometimes – all the time – how he could have been a part of creating a person so perfect. Bellamy is aware that he’s bias, because he’s her father and all, but there’s a part of him that believes he could very well be impartial enough to conclude that Maisie Aurora Griffin-Blake is, indeed, perfect. There’s a lot that Bellamy’s messed up in his life, shattered into a million pieces before his very eyes, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t spend his life trying to preserve the complete and utter epitome of perfection that comes in the form of his very own daughter.

Bellamy’s staring, lodged in a midst of wonder for too long, because Maisie stretches open her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut in an insistent yawn. He scrunches up his nose at her playfully, her eyes half-lidded now as she gazes up at him. Ghosting his fingers down the side of her face, she leans into his touch, her cheek pressing against his palm. Her eyes begin to flutter closed, and that’s when Bellamy scoops her into his arms.

“Ah, not yet,” he coaxes. “We’ve got to give you a bath first.” Maisie perks up in his arms, throwing her arms around Bellamy’s neck as he nestles his nose against hers and carries her off to the bedroom.

Neglecting to turn off the television blaring in his living room, Bellamy shuts the door to the bathroom and begins to run the bath water. He drowns out the sound of the weatherman detailing the night’s forecast, “ _Officials are calling for thirty centimeters of snow tonight. And that’s just the beginning of a hefty storm, right in time for the Christmas season_.”

* * *

_December 22  
_ _10:46pm_

Clarke was supposed to pick up Maisie at 10:15, sharp. She finishes up her shift at the gallery around ten, and she’s always very prompt with her arrival time. Annoyingly, she accommodates for travel time, giving her free reign to side eye Bellamy when he arrives a minute or so passed their scheduled meetup, because Clarke Griffin certainly never is. It’s irritating, and he’ll usually meet her promptness with an eyeroll, but now, he’s kind of freaking out.

By the time he had got Maisie out of the bath, the snow had picked up drastically. Sheets of snow came down in milliseconds, piling on top of the flakes that had already laid to rest upon the bustling streets below. Bellamy could hear the gusts of wind aggressively smack against his window as the snow accumulated, nearly sealing off the bottom quarter of his sliding door. Maisie had been entrapped by it, eager pressing her fingers against the glass and ultimately bursting into tears when she realized she physically couldn’t touch the snow. It took a while for Bellamy to calm her down and put her to sleep with the combination of what seemed to be the beginnings of a blizzard, the loud gusts of window and his ultimate worry that Clarke was going to have to drive in that mess.

With Maisie asleep, Bellamy texts Clarke a series of messages – attempting to appear level-headed while simultaneously failing to do just that. _How’s everything at the gallery?_ Had been the first text, at around 7:45. No response. Okay, that’s fine, she must be working. At exactly 8:15, he added: _Snow’s pretty bad here. How is it over there?_ Again, to no avail. At 8:27, _Do you think you’ll be able to get here, okay?_ The fourth time, he waited until 9:30, when her shift was almost over. _Any updates?_ 10:00: _Hope work was okay. How’s the snow looking over at the gallery?_

And then finally, 10:15:

_Noticed you’re not here._

_Obviously._

_Traffic must be bad._

10:17:

_Is traffic bad?_

10:21:

_Please don’t stress yourself out in coming here.  
I can keep Maisie for the night._

_I know Harper lives right beside the gallery, stay with her, be safe._

10:27:

_Have you left?  
Should I come get you? _

And the last text, at 10:32:

_Clarke, I just need to know that you’re okay._

The snow only thickens from that point. Bellamy has to physically cast his phone aside – with the ringer on – to stop his fingers from flying across the keyboard. If Clarke is on her way, she can’t text him a drive. The snow is probably just extenuating her drive. Or, she could be held up at the gallery. They have a new exhibit opening up in the new year. He tries to stop his list of plausible conclusions there. There’s a slight tendency of his to be negative, and he’s already freaking himself out, which is doing nobody any good.

Bellamy tears his glare away from the blizzard outside. A wave of anxiety flows through him, so he reaches to the curtains to push them in front of the sliding door, obstructing his view of the city below. The room darkens almost instantly, if not for a sliver of light provided by the streetlights outside. It’s enough to illuminate his daughter, sound asleep in the middle of his bed. Bellamy creeps over, hands gently sinking into the mattress as to not wake her, peering down at Maisie. Her chest rises and falls slowly, her arms sprawled above her head and face ridden with content. He almost starts thinking about having to raise her alone.

A swift knock at the door starts his heart again. Bellamy practically prances out of the room, quiet enough not to wake Maisie but quick enough to assuage his own worries. He unbuckles all the locks so rapidly that his hands cramp before he can reach for the doorknob. But he’s able to do it, swinging open the door and revealing the mother of his child, decked from head to toe in fresh snow.

“You couldn’t have called?” Bellamy snaps.

Not the way to greet Clarke on this late night. Her face twists into a scowl, “The roads were shit. I rather keep my eyes in front of me than on a screen. You know, so I could come home to our daughter?”

Sheepishly, Bellamy steps aside, allowing her to trot inside. Clarke kicks off her boots in the heat of her anger, but her perfectionism gets the best of her, and she collects them from the floor to place them on his shoe holder. She rips off her hat, snowflakes dropping from its fabric, similarly to the ones patterning her coat. With a huff, she stuffs her hat into the pocket of her coat, shaking her air of the weather. Her blonde locks are dampened on the ends, curling her hair just the slightest bit. She peels off her mittens next, also stuffing them into the pocket of her coat.

“Sorry,” Bellamy apologizes. “I was just worried.”

“I know,” Clarke winces, her irritation subsiding. “I would have called if I could. I didn’t think it would be that bad when I left.”

Bellamy shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, giving her a small smile. “It’s alright. How was your shift?”

“Fine,” Clarke shrugs. “Anya’s on my ass about this new exhibit. Nothing new.”

He nods slowly, not sure of what to add. It’s a little disheartening, how the small talk has plagued each and every one of their conversations that don’t revolve around Maisie. A year and a half ago, she would be the person that he would ramble to about anything and everything. Always with an attentive listening ear and wide, alert eyes, absorbing every bit of information she could to respond in kind. Bellamy would love hearing her talk, especially when it was about her art. It would make her cheeks glow, and she could talk for hours, and he could just sit there, ears intent on whatever she had to say.

Now, it’s small talk to pass the time, and to make sure they’re still in civil standing with one another. Bellamy wouldn’t say that their friends, not anymore, but they’re decent co-parents. At the end of the day, he supposes that’s all that matters. They’ve both moved on, their only common ground being the daughter that they share.

“How was Maisie?” Clarke inquires, after too many moments of silence have passed.

“Good,” a genuine grin breaks out onto Bellamy’s face. “She’s obsessed with the snow. So much so she tried eating it.”

“Of course she did,” Clarke beams. Another pause lingers between them, and this time Clarke interrupts it with the clearing of her throat and a forced smile. “I’m going to go grab her.”

Panic arises in Bellamy’s chest. He’ll tell himself it’s because of Maisie’s wellbeing, and only her wellbeing, ignoring who else his concern is for as he steps in front of Clarke. “Wait. You can’t take her in your car in the middle of a blizzard.”

“I just drove here, on my own.” Clarke frowns.

“It was an extra thirty minute drive. It’ll take you an hour, probably more because it’s only supposed to get worse from here.”

Clarke chews on her bottom lip, casting her gaze down the hall towards the door of Bellamy’s room. He can tell she wants to argue with him about it. The way her eyebrows furrow, teeth grazing against her lower lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She knows what her other option, if it’s not to take Maisie on an hour drive, in the middle of a blizzard. And as much as Clarke likes to argue, Bellamy would prefer to think she likes her daughter just a little bit more.

“You can stay here,” Bellamy offers, hoping that eases some of the tension. Clarke glances back at him, the uncertainty in her eyes fading just slightly. “I’ll take the couch. In the morning, things will calm down, the snow trucks will have plowed the streets. It’ll be a lot safer.”

It’s a logical approach, one knows Clarke tends to take a liking to, all too well. She nods, “Alright. But I’ll take the couch.”

Bellamy arches a brow. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“That is something you just aren’t.”

“Liar. Maisie thinks I’m very gentlemen-ly.”

The slight of a smile appears on Clarke’s lips. It, horribly so, goes straight to Bellamy’s head, as the smile he mirrors sparks his mouth move, “You know, we can both take the bed. If you feel so terrible about the couch.”

As quick it had appeared, Clarke’s smile drops from her lips. Bellamy feels his chest tense, a sheepish expression clouding his features. He struggles to get the words out, any form of an apology failing to roll off his tongue. Clarke awkwardly shifts her weight from one foot to the other, rubbing her fingers against the back of her neck and avoiding her gaze. He catches the hint of a blush on her cheeks, but his pride is too hurt to call her out on it.

The last time they shared a bed together was right before the divorce was finalized. And in so, produced Maisie.

“I’ll take the couch.” Clarke states before deterring the conversation, her voice quieter now. “Is Maisie in your room?”

Bellamy nods, gulping to bring some moisture back to his throat. “Yeah. I’ll bring her to her crib–”

Clarke’s already stepping backwards towards Bellamy’s room. “That’s alright, I haven’t seen her all day. I’ll move her.” Her back is turned to him before he can even open his mouth in reply, swiftly tiptoeing down the hallway to Bellamy’s room.

Bellamy closes his eyes, exhaling a low, shaky breath. He pictures Clarke quietly scooping their daughter into her arms, careful not to wake her as she cuddles Maisie to her chest. Clarke’s a good mom, a great one, and that’s why she’s staying here tonight. If it was for her own safety, Clarke wouldn’t bat an eye before darting out of this apartment and never looking back. She’s done it before. And just like last time, the only element in play that encourages her to stay is Maisie. The only reason Clarke even speaks to him is because of Maisie.

Hearing the creak of the door, Bellamy’s eyes flutter open, his chest relaxing in an attempt to look balanced. Clarke has Maisie cradled in her arms, nudging the door open with her elbow while her finger grazes against the softness of their sleeping daughter’s cheek. The glow overtaking her features exudes into the dim lighting of the apartment, bring a burst back to Bellamy’s chest that he had hoped to deactivate. She glances up at him, once, giving him a charitable smile in passing before slipping into Maisie’s room. Clarke doesn’t catch the smile he gives her in return.

Bellamy heads to his room, re-making the bed that Maisie occupied just moments before. She twists and turns in her sleep, always on the move, so Bellamy basically has to build a fort out of pillows around her to keep his daughter from falling off the bed. Once the bed is made, he trudges over to the dresser and rummages through the drawers, trying to find something for Clarke to wear. There’s a couple of sweaters that he hasn’t really worn, and some baggy pants, but he can’t imagine any of the options will be to Clarke’s liking.

He finds it then. The fabric of his high school football jersey slicking against his fingers. Pulling it from its buried position at the bottom of the dresser, Bellamy holds either corner of the jersey to behold in front of him. It’s funny, because when he looks at this jersey, all he should think about is his shining glory moments in that stadium, the crowd cheering wildly for him while his team hypes him up from the field. And yet, all Bellamy thinks about is Clarke, how the large jersey engulfed her tiny frame, and the way she would curl up it in beside him after games and later on, in their bed.

The quiet tiptoe of Clarke’s footsteps register back in his eardrums. Quickly, Bellamy folds the jersey over his forearm, turning towards the door just as Clarke enters. She seems to have something to say, offering a tight, awkward smile. Only for a moment though, before her eyes flicker down to the jersey in Bellamy’s hands.

It’s cruel of him, Bellamy knows, but he steps towards her and extends the jersey. “Here. Something to sleep in.”

Clarke hesitates, but Bellamy’s stature remains still. His lips purse tightly, eyes fighting to meet hers. It becomes too unbearable for her to keep their eyes locked, so she silently takes the jersey from him before scurrying out of the room. He hears the door to what he presumes is the bathroom shut, before the running water sounds. Bellamy gasps out a breath, unaware he was holding on in to begin with.

* * *

_December 23  
_ _5:57am_

A murmur seeps into Bellamy’s ears, jolting him awake. He sits up straight in bed, scanning around his dark, empty bedroom as the murmur sounds from the next room. Any mere sliver of a sound manages to wake him, ever since Maisie was born. There’s barely anytime to sleep with a newborn, and even when he did manage to rest his eyes, the overwhelming guilt he’d feel for missing his daughter’s cries would send him into a tailspin. From there, he became a very light sleeper. The murmuring doesn’t help.

Bellamy climbs out of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He quietly opens the door to his bedroom before tiptoeing out, a reflection of light instantly beaming into the hallway. Glancing at the door to Maisie’s room, he ensures it’s sealed before tiptoeing out to the living room. The television is on, coming into full view right before him. A telecaster is mouthing words that Bellamy’s too tired to absorb, with a forecast detailed behind him.

Clarke stands before the television, in nothing but his jersey. Her back is to him, remote gripped in her hand while she stares at the television. Bellamy should say something, but his eyes travel up the creaminess of her thighs, before ending at the tail of his jersey. The light illuminates her skin, complimenting her porcelain features against the navy jersey. He finds himself staring for too long, and not wanting to be a creep, he coughs.

“Hm,” he clears his throat. Clarke flips her hair over her shoulder, glancing back at him. Bellamy tries to keep a straight face, “What’s going on?”

The disappointment written across her features is hard to ignore. She sighs, “There’s a snow storm. It’s only going to get worse.”

“You can stay here for a bit longer,” Bellamy supplies, maybe a little too quickly.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees defeatedly. She turns back to the screen, and Bellamy hopes she doesn’t catch the way his heart crumbles at her dissatisfaction with the reality. “I guess we’ll have to.”

Bellamy doesn’t catch himself before letting out a scoff. Clarke spins back around, her eyebrow arched challengingly. He almost backs down, but staring at the vengeance in her fiery, blue eyes ignites an irritation in him.

“A thanks would be nice,” Bellamy bites out.

“Thanks for not forcing your daughter and I to leave in the middle of a snowstorm,” Clarke snaps with the roll of her eyes.

“If you could you would have dragged her out there before I even woke up. That’s why you were checking the news this fucking early.”

“Sorry I’m not more excited to spending my holiday with my ex-husband.”

“Christmas isn’t here yet. Hopefully the snow melts by the time you pull your head out of your ass.”

Clarke turns to face him fully, her expression hard and eyes narrowed into slits. Bellamy straightens, none the more intimidated by his ex-wife as she is him. He’s been tiptoeing around her for too long. Ever since she told him she was pregnant, he’d only tried to be accommodating to her. He knows she blames him for that night. While she loves Maisie, she’s a reminder of what could have been – her failed exit ticket, straight out of his life.

“I’m doing this for Maisie,” it’s not a complete lie when he says it. “Anything I have done since our divorce has been for our daughter. So don’t think I’m being charitable.”

“Charitable is the last word I would use to describe you,” Clarke laughs bitterly, but keeps her voice low. “There’s a reason we aren’t together anymore.”

“Believe me, I haven’t forgot it.”

“Seems like you have. All you do is look at me with those fucking puppy dog eyes, like you’re scared of breaking me in half. You’ve already done that.”

“I’m not the one who wanted a divorce. You’re the one who wasn’t happy, you’re the one who wanted to get out–”

“Well, I didn’t get out. I’m still right fucking here.”

There’s a blame interlacing her tone that’s frightened Bellamy for over a year and half. Finding out she was pregnant was scary in its own, because of how under prepared they were to have a baby. But knowing that she sees him like this, as a man who trapped her into a lifetime with him brings a whole new sense of dread to his chest. She’ll never look at him as the man she fell in love with, not anymore. And it sucks, because even she knows that he’ll always look at her that way.

Bellamy takes a step back, the betrayal riddling every part of his features. Clarke catches it, instant regret seeping into her bones. Her face softens, guilt etching into her expression. He stands still in his place as she draws towards him, gulping down a lump that’s formed in his throat.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Clarke whispers. “I love Maisie. I wouldn’t take her back for anything in this world.”

“I know,” Bellamy mutters. And he does know that. It’s the only thing he’s certain of when it comes to her. “But she’s the only reason you even bother to speak to me.”

Clarke must know there’s no sense in denying it. He wouldn’t believe her anyways. Her lips screw shut, and she only looks at him with an apologetic stare. “It’s not because I don’t love you.”

“Isn’t that why people get divorced?” Bellamy scoffs, a sour taste in his mouth.

“You know that’s not why I left.”

“No, I don’t, princess. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

The nickname has a habit of igniting something Clarke. It’s exactly why Bellamy uses it, still slipping smooth from his tongue, despite it not being utilized in close to a year and a half. She stiffens, eyes flickering up to him with the most doe-eyed expression that his heart could burst. He presses his lips together tightly, trying to stop them from quivering. Clarke shows no such restraint, her bottom lip trembling as her eyes brim with tears.

“I wish I could,” she whispers. “But sometimes I’m the one who doesn’t know.”

There’s something about Clarke standing in front of him, his football jersey hanging below her hips, hair in loose waves and looking at him with the mixture of pity and adoration that stirs every part of Bellamy’s desire. He hates that she feels bad for him, that besides Maisie it’s the only thing keeping her from cutting him off completely. He still doesn’t know how they got here, but he is certain that if he doesn’t kiss her right now, his heart will shatter into a million pieces, and not for the first time.

Bellamy lurches forward, his hand tucking under her cheek and bringing his lips forward. They crash against hers in a hard messy combination of skin. He wouldn’t blame her if she pushed him off, slapped him across the face and locked herself in Maisie’s room until the storm passed. They’re divorced, have been for over a year and a half, and some half-hearted declaration of uncertainty on Clarke’s behalf isn’t going to change that.

Except Clarke doesn’t push him off, or slap him in the face, nor storm away from him. There’s no act of aggression as she sinks into him, lips melting into his as her arms wrap around his neck, bringing him closer. Bellamy’s hands find their way to snake around her waist, gently guiding her up against the wall. She nearly stumbles backwards, but Bellamy has her, pressing her against the wall before he detaches his lips from hers and attacks her neck with kisses.

Her hands come up to grip into his hair, a soft moan escaping her lips. “Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s head doesn’t lift. “Hm?” He murmurs against the crook of her neck, planting a hickey in that exact spot to remind her of this a couple hours from now.

Clarke doesn’t say anything. He’s sure she’s thinking of something to say, a rebuttal to end this, not allow it to happen again in the middle of the hallway with their daughter sleeping in the next room. He’ll stop if she wants him to, no hesitation or rebuttal. But when he pulls away from her neck to return to her lips, her catches that glimpse of lust in her half-lidded eyes. And while his heart churns at it not being more, there’s nothing more he wants to cherish than this moment right here.

“Bellamy,” she says again, this time a breath against his lips, with more fruition. He slows his kisses, allowing her to speak. “We can’t do this. Not again.”

“You don’t want to?” Bellamy urges, resting his forehead against hers.

“It’s not that,” Clarke whispers. Her grip tightens on his hair, eyes closing shut. “It’s not fair.”

“To who?”

“To you.”

“You let me decide that, won’t you, princess?”

Bellamy captures her lips in her once more, his tongue smoothening against her own. Bliss consumes him, the utter disbelief combined with pure relief to have her so close again after all of this time. Clarke leans up, grinding her crotch against the growing bulge in his pants. Bellamy growls, something low and deep as she gently jerks against him, trying not to show how much she’s itching for this. He inserts his thigh in between her two legs, allowing her to get the friction that she needs while he relishes in kissing her.

The moan that escapes her lips and sinks into his mouth only add to his passion, deepening his mouth against hers. He wants to taste every part of her that he can.

There’s a brief moment where they’re like that. Hands sprawled across each other’s bodies, Clarke not-so-subtly grinding down on his thigh, mouths engulfed in one another. His hand slips over to the front of her to palm her breasts through his jersey, and he’s flashed back to high school, when he would sneak her into the locker room just to feel her like this. The memory must hit her too, but differently, because she abruptly jerks away from him.

“I can’t,” Clarke mumbles. “I can’t, Bellamy, I can’t.”

Without a second thought, Bellamy stops. His body resorts back to preservation mode, unwrapping his arms from her body and detaching his lips from her. He steps back, dipping his head, “Sorry, sorry.”

“No,” Clarke breathes. “No, it’s not anything you did. I just–” Bellamy braces himself. “This isn’t a good idea.”

Bellamy presumes somebody has to be the moral compass here. It’s certainly not him. He has a tendency for his selfishness to get the better of him, and she’s always the one to call him out on it. Granted, she’d rephrase it, detailing him as the one with his heart shamelessly on his sleeve. His love shows no bounds, certainly not the ones naturally created by divorce. The only reason she doesn’t let him have it now is because she feels bad for him.

The pity in her eyes is unmistakable. It dries his throat, almost as much as the sight of her does. She’s still leaning against the wall, eyes never leaving his as she tugs down the hem of his jersey to cover the panties he would have gone for next. Clarke stares at him as if he’ll break, crumble into her arms. Like suddenly, she regards him as the one broken by her, as if just minutes before this, she wasn’t saying the exact opposite.

“Maisie’s going to wake up soon,” his voice is as emotionless as he intends it to be. “Get some sleep before she’s up for the day.”

He doesn’t waste time soaking in her reaction. Bellamy turns on his heel and quietly walks back to his room, careful not to disturb their daughter or the fragile silence that falls over his apartment, if not for the television murmuring in the background. Waiting until the door is securely closed behind him, Bellamy soars over to the bed and sinks his fist into the pillow. Over and over again, he sends his fist into that pillow, quietly grunting out his aggression in his fit of frustration.

Last Christmas, he may have been lonely, but it sure as hell hurt a lot less than this.

* * *

_December 23  
_ _8:21am_

Maisie is awake less than an hour later. Unsurprising to either of her parents, but still not something either of them are excited about at nearly seven in the morning. It’s obvious in the aversion of glances and quiet, necessary remarks that neither of them have forgotten about the events of an hour earlier. But they’re parents first, whatever the fuck they actually are second, so they surge into action in preparing Maisie breakfast.

Bellamy glances out the window as Clarke washes Maisie up, the snow still falling in heaps outside. It paints the city in shiny, white snowflakes, but the bleak of the grey sky casts a shadow over the buildings, dulling the ground below. He swivels his head over his shoulder to take a look at his daughter, covered head to toe in the oatmeal she just devoured, while Clarke anxiously tries to scrub at her face. Maisie just giggles, trying to bite the towel and Clarke scrunches up her nose, just to hear that wonderful sound come from their daughter’s mouth once more.

He bites back a smile. There’s not many instances in this life that Bellamy would call himself lucky, especially when it comes to Clarke. His luck seems to have run out years ago with her. Except for with Maisie. Their daughter is all of his luck stored in one tiny body. Not only is she a treasure in and of herself, with her curly locks and toothless smile, but she’s his last connection to the only other woman he’ll ever love so dearly. In a lot of ways, Maisie is his saving grace.

Maisie breaks out into another fit of giggles before reaching her chubby little fingers out towards the towel. A small smile lifts onto Clarke’s lips, and he silently thanks his saving grace for giving him an opportunity to see it a couple more times.

“She must be teething.” Clarke furrows her eyebrows together as she throws the towel down in a huff.

“I was thinking that,” Bellamy agrees, wiping his wet hands with a rag, leaning his back against the sink. “Octavia may have mentioned getting her some teething rings for the holidays.”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow. “Octavia’s idea?”

Bellamy only smirks. “Lincoln’s.”

Clarke laughs, standing from her chair. His jersey still hugs her body, completely smoothened out of the wrinkles he created just a couple hours ago. Bellamy swallows as Clarke leans over, unclasping the tray connected to Maisie’s highchair before unbuckling the belt she’s strapped in. Maisie reaches her hands out to Clarke, allowing her mother to scoop her into her arms.

“How’s that going?” Clarke asks, balancing Maisie on her hip. “Octavia and Lincoln?”

He bites down on the inside of his cheek. More small talk. Bellamy grimaces, hoping she interprets his reaction in accordance with her question. “Good, I think. She’s spending Christmas with him again.”

Silence looms over the two of them; an awkward Bellamy created himself. He could have just said things were going well between his sister and her boyfriend, but instead he brought up the sad fact that his plan is to be lonely on Christmas. The pitiful look that resonates over Clarke’s features softens as she glances as their daughter, a reminder of another loved one Bellamy won’t be seeing on Christmas day.

“I thought you’d go see Miller,” Clarke offers.

“Miller has his own family,” Bellamy forces a smile. Clarke’s face wretches with pity, so he sarcastically adds, “I’ll miss him terribly so.”

Clarke sighs, “Bellamy–”

Bellamy lurches forward, stealing their daughter from Clarke in avoidance of any further conversation. Maisie launches into a fit of giggles as Bellamy raises her above his head, and her dazzling, toothless smile repairs the ache in his heart, if only for a moment. He brings her back down to his level, sniffing at her diaper, a wave of relief washes over him. His daughter, the miracle of avoidances.

“You,” Bellamy nuzzles his nose against Maisie’s, “Need a diaper change.” Before he can even stare at the look of disapproval on his ex-wife’s face, he leads his daughter to her bedroom. He calls over his shoulder to Clarke, “I’ll take care of this one.”

Maisie’s a great baby; she stares out the window as her father lays her on the changing table – entrapped in the never ending fall of snowflakes that pile on top of one another. Her eyes widen with wonder and admiration, so similar to her mother’s curiosity that Bellamy’s heart crackles just a bit. He wraps her in a fresh diaper and lifts her into his arms, just as the door behind them creaks open.

“All changed,” Bellamy announces. He turns with Maisie bouncing contently in his arms, eyeing Clarke in the doorway. Clarke’s eyebrows furrow, deep in thought, and Bellamy’s heart races. He doesn’t know if he can take any more of her pity. “I was thinking we should take her out. You know, to play in the snow.”

That snaps Clarke out of her daze of contemplation. She straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. “In a blizzard?”

“Come on, it’s calmed down. The roads are just bad,” Bellamy insists. He motions to Maisie, who’s still staring out the window, in her own kind of daze. “We’ll bundle her up. She’ll be warm. Tire her out just before her nap.”

Clarke chews on her bottom lip, glancing between the father of her child and the window, coated with fresh snow. Maisie coos into Bellamy’s ear, clearly in agreeance with his plan, and Bellamy raises his eyebrows challengingly at Clarke. Part of her has to know this is partially a ploy to get rid of her self-guilt directed towards him. But Clarke was married to Bellamy for three years, with him for longer, and she can tell by the dazzle in his eye that he doesn’t really care if she agrees. He’s taking his daughter out to play in the snow, regardless of her input.

Bellamy watches as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. He could probably physically pinpoint the moment she chooses to compartmentalize their previous discussion for a later hour. Her expression softens, pity morphing into reluctance – which isn’t any better. God, he hates the way she looks at him now. Like he’s nothing more than a burden, a tick that she just can’t get rid of.

He hugs Maisie a little tighter to him. Because of their daughter, he can have Clarke, albeit like this. Bellamy’s longing stare, her eyes melting into his, nothing more than an aftereffect of what they once were. And although it stirs something inside of him so undeniably painful, he rather have her like this than not at all. If this is what their family is, he can bear it. It’s the only one he’s got left.

“Okay,” Clarke settles on, and it’s just that simple. “But she wears a sweater under her snowsuit, over her onesie.”

Bellamy breaks into a grin, a genuine one this time. “You’ve got it, princess.”

Before Bellamy turns his back to place Maisie on the changing table, he catches Clarke’s breath hitch. His own is caught in his throat, but he gulps down a gust of air to manage.

* * *

_December 23  
9:12am_

“Bellamy, be careful!”

Clarke’s shrieks are of no concern to Bellamy. He gently holds Maisie by her underbelly, swaying her back and forth as he crouches close to the ground. Clarke’s curled into herself, hands tucked into her armpits and face beat red, watching from the edge of the lawn. The parking lot, along with its cars, are toppled in snow, and thankfully the plain beside it is as well. The piles of snow will make a cushion landing, one that Maisie is eagerly anticipating as her father gently rocks her back and forth, her eyes widening at the snow beneath her.

A small smirk graces Bellamy’s lips as he lets Maisie graze her hands against the cold, white snow. Her mittens catch some flakes, decorating the cotton in all its glory. Maisie squeals and giggles, Bellamy rocking her back and forth at a quicker rate. Just as she brings her hand up to eat the snow, Bellamy plops her into the snow. Clarke gasps, charging over as their daughter turns over, flopping onto her back with the biggest toothless grin on her face.

“Bellamy,” Clarke kneels into the snow. She gazes down at their daughter, making a half-hearted attempt at snow angels. “Fuck, Bellamy. You scared me.”

Bellamy kneels into the snow beside Clarke, running his hand over Maisie’s stomach. “Look at her. She belongs in the snow.”

Before Clarke can make another protest, Bellamy rolls onto his back beside Maisie. His ex-wife gazes at him with the furrow of her brows, but he can only smirk at her in reply. He starts flailing his arms about, mimicking their daughter’s horrible snow angel-making skills. Maisie takes no offence, shrieking at her father joining her in the snow. She flops back over onto to her stomach and crawls over to him. Plopping the palms of her hands on his stomach, she climbs onto his father’s belly while his limbs continue to imprint into the snow.

Clarke sits back on her heels, gazing at the two frolicking in the snow. Out of his peripheral, Bellamy catches the glimmer of that girl from high school. The blush rising to her cheeks – which she’ll undeniably blame on the cold – and the twinkle in her eye as she stares at the two of them. Bellamy tries to focus on Maisie, which is never that hard when his daughter stares at him like he’s the only person in the world. But the only two people in Bellamy’s world is Maisie and her mother, and Clarke barely looks at him with anything other than pity these days.

Bellamy wraps his arms around Maisie, hoisting her up as he sits in the snow. Maisie throws her hands around his neck and plants an open mouthed kiss to his cheek. He snuggles her closer, blowing raspberries against her neck, peering at Clarke over her shoulder. Clarke catches his eye, the smallest of smiles turning up the corner of her lips. His heart beats a little quicker, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the way Clarke looks at him, or the fact that they’re all together at this very moment. He assumes it’s a mixture of both.

Holding Maisie with one arm, Bellamy outstretches his hand to Clarke. “Think you can help us up?”

Clarke shakes her head, not in a form of no, but as if she’s snapping out of a daze. Bellamy resists the urge to frown, already missing the smile that’s taken up her features. She nods, brushing herself off and standing to her feet. She accepts Bellamy’s hand, and he’d think having their skin covered in mittens would lessen the effect. But holding Clarke to any degree is something Bellamy refuses to take for granted. So, he squeezes back.

And yanks her down into the snow.

Clarke yelps, as Maisie bursts into a fit of laughter. She stumbles into the snow and loses her footing, basically face planting into the ground beside them. Thankfully, covered with snow to cushion her fall, but he already knows before he looks at her that she’s pissed. Bellamy lets a chuckle escape his lips as Clarke frantically gets to her knees, wiping the snow off her face and hair in frenzied motions.

“You’re a dick,” Clarke spits.

“You’re no fun,” Bellamy smirks. He glances back at their daughter, “Right, love? Mommy’s no fun.”

“Hey! I can be fun.”

“I don’t think so, princess.”

Clarke’s face scrunches together, her nose wrinkling up and eyes narrowing in contemplation. It would almost be cute, if Bellamy didn’t know how vengeful she could be. The minute she twists around, hands collecting the snow, Bellamy knows to get to his damn feet. He cradles Maisie carefully, already trying to charge across the plain of snow.

She’s quick, though. A snowball splats against his back, a fatal blow. Maisie, contently peering over his shoulder, gasps, having witnessed the whole thing. She glances back at her father, her face twisted in shock as if asking _are you gonna do anything?_ Bellamy glances from his daughter to Clarke, standing triumphantly just a couple feet away, another formed snowball in her hand. This time, she doesn’t wait for him to start running, launching a snowball directly at his stomach.

Maisie has a front row view of the action this time and she takes her mother’s side. She bounces in Bellamy’s grasp, giggling and clapping for her mother’s antics. Clarke practically skips up to them, scooping Maisie into her arms with a victorious smirk. Maisie leans into her mother’s side, the same shimmer of victory in her eye.

“Traitor,” Bellamy sneers.

“Looks like daddy’s the one who can’t have fun,” Clarke feigns a pout.

In a flash, Bellamy’s crouching down beside the snow, collecting piles into his hands and haphazardly forming snowballs. Clarke squeals, Maisie mirroring her mother’s faux fear. She’s not even halfway across the plain when Bellamy hurls one at her back. He misses his aim, drastically so, hitting the back of her neck. Clarke squirms, the snow seeping down into her jacket and melting against her back.

Clarke whips around, Maisie still in grip, mouth agape. She calls out to him, “You have horrible aim!” 

Bellamy doesn’t even wait a beat before hurling the other snowball at Clarke’s shoulder. She stumbles back slightly, but not enough to lose footing or thankfully, lose grip of their daughter. Maisie squeals as the snowball disintegrates against her mother’s coat, Clarke’s mouth agape once more.

“I think I’m pretty good,” Bellamy smirks. “Football star, remember, princess?”

There’s a flicker in her eye that Bellamy knows Clarke wishes he would miss. But he doesn’t, never does when it comes to her. He transports himself back to high school, standing in the field, throwing a football back and forth before one of his games. Clarke has no athletic bone in her body, but would insist on helping him warm up before games. She’s just stand there, in his jersey and a pair of tights, attempting to catch any ball he threw her way.

Sometimes, he’d purposely hurl the ball far enough for her just to scamper off trying to catch it. It was rare she ever did, even for the regular throws, but every game – she would be there. Either helping him practice on the field or cheering his name in the stands. And after, there she would be, ready to spend the congratulating him or cheering him up. The two of them, always wrapped up in one another, attached at the hip practically.

God, he still can’t pinpoint when that all changed. When being one another’s one and only shifted to this horrible thing. Bellamy wonders if Clarke knows, because if so, she never told him that. Suddenly, being around him was a burden, insufferable, not what she wanted. And the only reason they’re standing in this field together now is because of their daughter, the one neither of them planned to have.

Bellamy’s chest deflates, the other snowball hanging in his hand gripped within his mittens. He’s suddenly lost all gusto. Part of him thinks Clarke must have to, the way she shrinks back into herself. Maisie, the smartest one out of any of them, glances between her two parents, confusion written all over her features. She pouts, and a wave of guilt washes over Bellamy. He takes a step forward to take her, round this whole thing up and usher them back inside, when a snowball collides with his shoulder.

If not for force, Bellamy stumbles back in shock. Clarke stares back at him with a triumphant smirk, holding her hand out for Maisie to high five. Their daughter eagerly leans forward smack her tiny hand against her mother’s as Clarke grins back at Bellamy.

“Come on, football star,” Clarke teases. “Giving up so soon?”

That’s the Clarke he knows. No room to give up when there’s a game coming up. A smirk grows across Bellamy’s face as he tosses the snowball in his hand up in the air, catching it with ease. Clarke doesn’t appear at all scared, but that’s not even Bellamy’s goal. He likes having her like this, free of the necessary parental discussion or small talks. Just the two of them, being exactly what they are.

“You know I’m no quitter.” Bellamy grunts as he hurls the snowball in Clarke’s direction.

This time, Clarke does an excellent job of dodging. She practically throws herself to the side, holding on tightly to Maisie. His daughter’s fit of giggles mixes with Clarke’s hearty laughter, and he swears his heart sings.

Bellamy doesn’t let himself get distracted this time, noting when Clarke leans down to create more snowballs. He mirrors her, knowing his snowballs are ten times crappier than hers, but he’s no perfectionist. They serve one purpose, if not to throw at her; just to hear his two favorite girls laugh. And it works, because the moment his poorly formed snowball crashes against Clarke’s side, the two of them erupt into bouts of laughter.

Clarke matches his intensity; snowballs flying at an accelerated rate in his direction. She’s a lot more strategic than he is, collecting about half a dozen snowballs before she fires even one. Bellamy just makes one and hurls them at her, which makes him think he’s winning, until Clarke throws six snowballs his way at once. No matter which way he dodges, at least one always manages to hit him.

“Damn, since when can you throw?” Bellamy calls out to her.

“Since when can’t you catch?” Clarke shouts back.

Bellamy feigns hurt, charging towards her and swiping Maisie from her arms. Clarke shrieks as Bellamy makes a run for it. Maisie bounces along in delight, glancing over Bellamy’s shoulder at her mother, than looking back to her father for a giggle. He can hear Clarke’s feet pounding against the snow behind him, before a brief pause. Bellamy almost stops, just to turn back and see Clarke got tired so quickly, when he feels a weight against his back.

Clarke wraps her legs around his torso and hands around his neck, having hoisted herself onto his back without warning. He groans in surprise, falling to his knees. His pants dig into the snow as he tightens his hold on Maisie, ensuring that if any of them are to get injured by their antics, that it’s him. He gently sets her into the snow, Maisie watching in anticipation as Bellamy inevitably flops onto his stomach, Clarke still on top of him.

Bellamy’s cheek presses into the cool snow, ensuring that Maisie is alright. She is, looking at her parents intertwined with a toothless grin. He bites back a smile, “You could’ve killed our daughter.”

“I would never,” Clarke insists, rolling off of him and onto her back. She plops into the snow just as Bellamy shifts to gaze at her. “Not my fault you can’t handle a tackle like you used to.”

“You calling me old?” Bellamy teases.

“Oh, death is at your doorstep.”

Bellamy laughs, ignoring the shiver that chases down his spine. He should chalk it up to the cold, but he’s sure it’s partially because of the way Clarke’s looking at him. That teasing smile on her lips, the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Her hands placed so softly on her stomach, gazing at him like it’s just the two of them.

Her lips are pink from the cold, but never have they looked so inviting. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t kissed her in almost two years, and last night was like an addict relapsing. Clarke’s been the only thing in his life he could never shake, even if he wanted to. He should restrain himself, tell himself that kissing her would only be catastrophic. But the twinkle in her eyes morphs from amusement to hope, and when she nudges closer, he nearly does it.

Their lips are barely a brush apart, before her feels a body slump against his torso. He grunts in surprise, glancing at Maisie who’s propped herself up on her father’s hip. She glances from Bellamy to Clarke, eyes wide and curious, wondering when she’s going to be a part of the fun. Like Bellamy said, in some ways Maisie is a saving grace. Although in this moment, he wishes she wouldn’t have soared in.

Clarke coughs, sitting up in the snow. She leans forward, hoisting Maisie over her father’s body and into her lap. Bellamy sighs inwardly, glancing at Clarke as she avoids eye contact. He stays planted there, as Maisie leans forward, trying to collect snow into her tiny hands and mirror her parents.

Bellamy helps her, forming a snowball for her to marvel at. He keeps stealing glances at Clarke, but she keeps her gaze downcast, firmly planted on Maisie, as if just seconds ago, they weren’t less than an inch away from kissing. He supposes this is just how it is now – almost’s and stolen kisses, never to be spoken of again. Because they aren’t together, and Clarke surely doesn’t want to be.

Maisie holds up the snowball in her hand. “Ba-ba.”

“Ball,” Bellamy tries to coax out of her, attempting to focus on his one source of light in this world.

His daughter makes no effort to try and say the actual word. Maisie simply glances up at her mother for confirmation, who gives her a forced smile in return. And then, she looks back to her father, and tries her best to curl her arm back and throw the snowball in his direction.

Bellamy laughs, the snow just grazing against his nose. Maisie claps with a grin, assuming she hit her mark. He looks back up at Clarke, “Looks like she’s got her mother’s arm, huh?”

Clarke’s mind is elsewhere. She’s gazing down at their daughter, but the look of regret from last night has taken up her features. Bellamy’s heart sinks as she gets to her feet, Maisie cradled in her grasp.

“It’s getting cold,” Clarke deadpans. “We should bring her in.”

Before Bellamy can even answer, Clarke’s turning her back to him, Maisie glancing over her mother’s shoulder as she walks across the field. She doesn’t skip like she did in high school or when she was trotting after him just minutes ago. Clarke strides, with a purpose and a mission, stepping back into the parking lot and towards his apartment building.

He almost decides to stay in the plain of snow until he gets hypothermia or something. Anything to numb the feeling of Clarke walking away from him again.

* * *

_December 23  
12:32pm_

Bellamy plops down on the couch beside Clarke, exhaustion emitting from his lips. Clarke raises an eyebrow, a coy smirk on her face as she uses the remote to lower the volume on the television. His eyes glaze over the screen, the blurry outline of a newscaster making boisterous gestures filling his vision. He presses his cheek against the cushion, watching as Clarke pretends to be interested in whatever this man is saying.

“Just got her down,” Bellamy breathes. “The snow did _not_ tire her out.”

Clarke hums in agreeance. Silence falls over the two of them, but Bellamy’s stare lingers a little longer. Before they went outside, they’d changed into warmer clothes – which just so happened to be one of his sweaters layered on top of his jersey, along with some baggy sweatpants for Clarke. She’s still bundled up in them, knees curling up to her chest as she stares blankly at the television screen. Her blonde hair is wavy, a bit frizzy from the snow, matted to the side of her face. On any other occasion, he’d reach up, brush it behind her ear.

He refrains, though. Switching his gaze back to the television, Bellamy zones in to what the newscaster is going on about. He’s directing to some sort of weather panel, all of which picture a cloud with heavy snow falling from it. Bellamy sits up against the couch, balancing his elbows against his knees and straining his ears to hear the low volume.

“The blizzard will be in full force tonight,” the weatherman announces. “With an additional twenty centimeters of snow before midnight. Looks like we are going to have an extra white Christmas.”

Bellamy swallows thickly, glancing over at Clarke. She’s gnawing on the nail of her thumb, eyes glued to the screen, but undeniably drawing the same conclusion as him. Hugging her legs tighter to herself, Clarke balances her chin on her knees. She’s trying not to look at him, not to verbalize what they already know. Irritation bubbles up inside Bellamy, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.

He swipes away the blood with his tongue, leaning against the cushion to peer at Clarke who’s eyes are still trained on the television screen, despite the weatherman switching gears. Clarke’s never been one for avoidance, not since they started having problems, and damn, sometimes he just wants to know what the fuck changed. They both have, he knows that. They’re not teenagers anymore. They’re adults, they were married and now they’re divorced, with a child nonetheless. And they still can’t fucking talk about it.

Clarke must feel his eyes on her, but if so, she chooses to ignore it. There’s nowhere to hide here, not in his apartment with their sleeping child in the next room. This may be no place for a screaming match, but Bellamy can’t go another twenty four hours with everything between them, and nothing said. It’s nearly killed him before, and he’s sure by this time tomorrow, he’ll be six feet under that pile of snow.

“I don’t mind you staying here for a bit longer,” Bellamy starts. “But I can’t be in this limbo with you anymore, Clarke.”

She gnaws on her lip, forces herself to look at him. “I’m not trying to make this more difficult.”

“Well, you are. We have a daughter, Clarke. And even if we didn’t, we’ve been together since we were teenagers. And you can barely look at me.”

“We’re not teenagers anymore, Bellamy.”

“So you keep reminding me. But _I know that_.”

A deep sigh escapes from Clarke’s lips, her hand leaning back to rub against her neck. Her gaze drops from his, and fuck, he can’t take it. Bellamy scoots closer, hip bumping against hers. She doesn’t move, doesn’t lean away or draw back, but her breath hitches and her stare remains on her lap. At first, all she could do is look at him with pity or regret, and now she refuses to meet his eye at all.

Bellamy waits the moment for his frustration to subside before tucking his hand under Clarke’s chin. He tips her chin upwards, meeting her watery eyes with his own, his lips pressed together in a trembling scowl. She screws her lips shut as her cheek folds inwards. She’s biting down on the inside of her cheek, similarly to him just seconds earlier. He wonders if she’s trying to taste blood or to stop herself from saying something she’s ultimately going to regret. Like everything when it comes to him.

“I know we’re not what we used to be,” Bellamy says lowly. “But why do we have to be _this_?”

Clarke spits out, “What is _this_?”

“Strangers with a fucking child. It’s a joke.”

The heat radiates off his body, having an adverse reaction of Clarke. She shivers under his touch, and he almost drops his hand, if not for the pleading look in her eye. Everything Clarke does reels him in, stitches him further into life, despite her obvious need to distance herself from him. All he ever wanted, all he still wants, is to have her as dedicated to him as he is to her, beyond their child, beyond their history. He needs her to want him, for him. Not for what’s left in the scrambles of their marriage.

Bellamy shakily brings his thumb to her mouth, tracing the outline of her lips, slowly, carefully. Clarke keeps her eyes on him, but his gaze has dropped to her lips. They’ve gained back their red color from the cold, but are still plump and inviting, and he’d do it right now if he didn’t have logic in his ear. The exhaustion is setting in, and the desperation never left, and any sense of caring about things going south are slipping away.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Clarke whispers.

“You don’t even know what that is,” Bellamy breathes.

“I couldn’t do it before. I can’t do it now.”

“What can’t you do? Love me?”

Clarke lets out a shaky breath, and Bellamy lifts his gaze to meet her eyes once more. A tear escapes, slipping down her cheek in a steady stream. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Then, what the fuck are we doing?” Bellamy tucks himself closer to her, hand cascading down to the back of her neck. “Why can’t we be together? Why would you leave?”

This time, Clarke tries to draw back from him, but Bellamy steadies her. Her face twists into this horrible look of regret and sorrow, and he almost wishes the pitiful gaze would come back, because seeing her like this is a whole different time of pain. His heart doesn’t crack, or shatter, it plummets into extinction, with no rhyme or beat or reason.

“Why would you leave?” Bellamy repeats. “Why not come back when we found out we were having Maisie?” Clarke says nothing, and he presses. “Why was I not enough?”

“It’s never been you, Bellamy.” Clarke insists, her voice cracking. “It’s me – It was always me.”

“It’s always been _you and me_. Together. What changed? Tell me what fucking changed–”

“ _We did_! Fuck, Bellamy. I’m not that doe-eyed girl who could sit on the stands and watch you out on the field. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore.”

Bellamy softens, heart finding its beat again. “You’ve never been that woman to me. You’ve never just been someone on the sidelines.”

“I never said you saw me that way. I saw me that way. I couldn’t see what you did.”

“That’s ridiculous, Clarke. You left me because of what? You could be the football captain’s girlfriend but not a janitor’s wife?”

“I wanted to be my own person! You’re all I’ve ever known, Bellamy.” Clarke declares, attempting to keep her voice low and between them. “You’re right. It’s always been you and I. It’s never just been me.”

And Bellamy doesn’t understand. There’s no part of him that gets any of this, any rhyme or reason to why they are the way they are now. He straightens, his hand dropping down to his lap. Clarke scrambles for it, holds his hand closer to her and it burns. Her touch imprints onto his skin, sends jolts through his nervous system, bring a fresh bout of tears to his eyes. He closes his eyes, breathes out slowly, feels the endless pit of not being good enough morph into emptiness.

“We would fight all the time,” Clarke begins again. Every word she says feels like an extra slash across his heart. “Especially in the last year. You started working nights, things got busy at the gallery. I barely saw you. I already felt like I was becoming a different person without you.”

_Without you. It’s always been you and I. It’s never just been me. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. It was never you, Bellamy. Why was I not enough?_

Bellamy opens his eyes, fire in his pupils. “And instead of working on that together, you ran away. You didn’t want to fix our marriage. You wanted out.”

In an act of desperation, Clarke leans forward, pressing her lips against his. It’s a plea, lacks promise or commitment, but he finds solace in her lips. She tightens her grip on his hand, and he uses his free one to steady himself on the couch as she climbs on top of him. Clarke straddles his hips, moving her hand to her chest. He can feel her heart, beating quick and relentlessly, while he feels as if his pulse is weakening, and he’s going to die here on this couch.

Bellamy pulls away from her as her hand comes to the back of his neck. She digs her nails into the back of his neck, tries to pull him back to her. He draws back, betrayal seeping into every bone in his body. She cements herself on top of him, grinding down on his crotch, trying to find a distraction, and he forces himself to keep looking at her in the eye. Every part of him is on fucking fire, and there’s no fuse to dismiss the flames.

“What is it now?” Bellamy seethes. “What’s keeping you from walking out when this all clears up? Taking my daughter and pretending that this never happened?”

Clarke doesn’t answer, and the only sound that can be heard is the heaviness of their breathing.

“You found out you were pregnant, and you ran further away. I had to fucking _catch you_ to have what we have now. And what we have now is pathetic.”

“I know, I know. I was scared, we’d just finalized the divorce. I didn’t think all our problems would be fixed just because we were having a baby–”

“Everything is about you, Clarke. What you think, how you feel. Did you even think about how I felt? When I begged you to stay that night? When I woke up the morning after we made love and this jersey,” Bellamy clenches the jersey in between his fingers, “was laid out on my bed, your damn suitcase was gone _and so were you_.”

He can feel her fingers fish through his curls, grip on tightly, as if for dear life. He can feel her tremble in his grasp, he can feel her heart beating a million miles a minute, can feel her squeeze at every bit of him he can. He can feel every inch of her, for the first time in a long time, and nothing is of his own accord. He feels nothing for himself, if not everything for her. And maybe that’s how it’s always been, Clarke before him, but now there’s more in this world than just the two of them.

“I don’t know how to make it up to you,” Clarke cries. “Let me try. I want to try.”

“Since when?” Bellamy breathes, and part of him thinks it’s the last breath he can muster. “Last night you didn’t want this.”

“I still don’t know what I want. All I know is I need to fix this.”

“For who? For you?”

“For us. For Maisie.”

Bellamy tries to wretch his gaze from her, but Clarke’s hand finds his cheek, brings him back to her. Her touch is face, nothing like the ragged words spewing from her lips. Her thumb ghosts against his cheekbones, and all the heat in his body seeps out of him, a shiver crawling up his spine. Against his better judgement, he leans into her touch, basks in it for the little time he may have it.

“I’m still figuring out me,” Clarke whispers. “But one thing I know about myself is that I love you. That’s never stopped. I just can’t…”

She trails off, and Bellamy doesn’t even know how to begin piecing together that sentence. At this point, he doesn’t care. He’s sure he will in a couple hours, and if not, the morning, but right now, there’s nothing but silence hanging beneath them, numbness in his chest. The only reason his heart is beating is because Clarke’s still here, by some miracle or maybe, a saving grace.

Bellamy leans up, capturing her lips with a soaring kiss. Clarke instantly curls into him, her grip tightening in his hair, grinding down against his crotch. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer against his torso. His hands roam her body, eager to touch every bit of her in the limited time they have. His lips fall from hers, kissing up her neck, memorizing the taste of her out of fear it being the last.

A wave of déjà vu overwhelms him, and he falters. Clarke pulls away, peering at him with curiosity. He thinks back to that night, their last night before the divorce, and fears he may repeat a spiral into oblivion if he goes that far again. Clarke, just as eager, surprisingly less cautious, brings her lips back to his, and he moans into her mouth. He shifts, readjusting their position so that he’s toppling over her on the couch.

Clarke sinks into the cushions of the couch, eyes fluttering open to gaze at him. She bats her eyelashes, waiting for him and all he can do is stare down at her, so stupidly, so utterly dumbfounded that he gets to have her like this. And yet the crushing feeling in his chest restricts his airflow and stops any form of thinking, logical or irrational, and all he can do is gaze at her.

“Bell,” Clarke brings her hand up, traces her fingers along his jaw. “What is it, baby?”

_What is it, what is it, what is it?_

Bellamy lowers his head to brush his lips against hers, tries to bring back any warmth to his body. But none of this feels real, nothing of permanence. When the storm clears, she’ll leave and she’ll take their daughter with her. She’ll return on the following weekend to drop Maisie off and leave before their daughter is even settled in his grasp, eager to escape the awkward small talk before it even begins. Their forever is over, and together means nothing if not to Maisie.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” he whispers against her lips. “We’re beyond fixes.”

Clarke shudders against him. “I know.”

He wishes she’d disagree, or maybe put up more of a fight. But maybe that’s all this is, and for now, they have to learn to be okay with it. Bellamy’s heart will always yearn for Clarke, and maybe that’ll be the same for her, but this is as close to common ground as they’ll be getting. In the spirit of Christmas, everything is supposed to be full of hope and miracles, but Bellamy’s never felt more cemented in the dreariness of his life than on December 23rdof this year.

Bellamy pecks at her lips, hooking his fingers under the waistband of the sweatpants she’s wearing and yanking them down to her ankles. Clarke helps him, shimmying them off her ankles and kicking them off the couch, and all that’s left is his sweater, his jersey and her white, cotton panties dressing her body. He sighs shakily, fingers ghosting over the fabric and wondering if he should be thanking the Universe or cursing it.

Her panties come off next, with one swift motion from Bellamy. He’s not sure where he throws them, doesn’t hear them hit the ground before he’s level with her pussy. He grips at her thighs, fisting them in his hands, marveling at the softness of her skin and the stretchmarks on her bottom. He kisses along the trail of those stretchmarks, paler than her skin, finds the path back to the valley of her thighs. His tongue trails upwards, drawing patterns against her skin as Clarke jerks her hips upwards so her center can meet his mouth. He doesn’t mind it, for now. He’s just as eager as she is.

Bellamy pins her hips down with his palms when he’s ready, licking one, long stripe up the middle of her cunt. She shivers beneath him, but before that can course through her, he’s already devouring every inch of her. God, he hasn’t tasted her pussy in nearly a year and a half. He has everything memorized, no need to relearn what makes her yelp and moan, but it’s just nice to taste her again.

“Oh, Bellamy,” Clarke breathes. “Baby, I missed this. I missed you.”

He doesn’t grace her with an answer, surely doesn’t have the willpower to. Sinking his fingers into her, he allows his tongue to explore every inch of her, savor her for another time. Bellamy’s tongue accompanies his two fingers pounding in and out of her for a bit, ensuring he can taste inside of her before he moves on to the rest of her. All her faults, Clarke’s amazing, she’s all he’s ever going to want and he wishes he could separate sex from the love he has for her, but he can’t. If Bellamy can’t have her, every part of Clarke’s cunt can be claimed by his tongue.

Bellamy brings his tongue up to flick against her clit, fingers still thrusting in and out of her. Her thighs close around his head, enclosing his ears, and all he can hear is the thudding of his heart and the faint sound of her moans. It’s enough, though, all about her right now is enough. If this is what she can give him, it’s all he wants, at least for this moment in time.

“Baby, oh fuck, _baby_ ,” he can hear her trying to stay quiet, chanting lowly. “Just like that. Bellamy, I want to come for you.”

It’s music to his ears, just like her climax is the song to his soul. Bellamy refrains from encouraging her, knows he’ll have her toppling over the edge in seconds. When he feels her pulsate around his fingers, he doesn’t ease up on her clit. He slows his fingers, allows her to come all over them, but keeps his tongue flicking rapidly against her clit. She bites back a moan, but the vibrations soar through her body right to his mouth.

Bellamy keeps going, knows he’s overstimulating her, can’t find it in him to care. His tongue flicks, fingers keep going, even as she’s well past her orgasm. Clarke relishes in it, jerking rapidly against him, no control over her own body. He slicks his fingers out of her just to grasp her by the hips, pull her impossibly closer to his mouth as his lips enclose around her clit, finally slowing his pace.

He squeezes at her hips, lets himself get one final taste of her on his tongue before he pulls away. Clarke’s breathing is erratic, Bellamy’s heart is pounding irregularly. He sits back on his heels for a moment, gazing at her closed eyes and sweaty body. His sweater clings to her, and his jersey slips through the hem, taunting him for eternity. He slumps against the opposite end of the couch, slicks his hand through his dampened curls and takes a shaky breath.

Clarke struggles to sit up, but manages, eyes glazed over in a heat. He can only stare back at her, uncertain and heartbroken and wonders if she feels the same. The empty part of him doubts it, and right now, he can’t locate the hopeful side of him. She reaches out to grasp at the waistband of his pants, but Bellamy catches her wrists, gently guides them away from him.

“I should check on Maisie,” Bellamy breathes.

Her eyebrows furrow together. “We would hear her if–”

Bellamy ignores her. He can hear the drumming in his ears, mixed with the vibrations of her voice but nothing sinks in. Standing from the couch, he’s not sure if Clarke stops talking or the world goes silent as he trudges out of the living room.

* * *

_December 23_

_5:54pm_

If Bellamy’s grateful for anything in his life, it’s Maisie. She crawls around the living room like she owns the place, with no destination or desire for anything other than to move. Her bare hands and knees smack loudly against the wood tiles as she crawls about the living room, prodding into the kitchen without care.

Bellamy’s crawling after her, any embarrassment having abandoned his body the minute he became a father. He’d crawl in the middle of a Target after his daughter if that would make her laugh. And it does, Maisie trotting from the living room to the kitchen with a bout of giggles following her every move. Bellamy crawls after her, on all fours, making absurd googly noises that cause her just to laugh louder.

Maisie reaches the oven, heading straight to her mother’s feet. She arches up, pulling at Clarke’s pantleg as Bellamy pauses behind her. He readjusts himself so that he’s sitting on the kitchen tile, back pressed against the cupboard as he holds out his hand to Maisie’s back to steady her. She continues to pull at Clarke’s sweatpants, trying to grab her attention, as her mother stirs the pot of pasta on the stove.

“I can finish it–” Bellamy offers, about to stand to his feet.

Clarke holds out the wooden spoon to him, eyes narrowed. “No. I’m cooking.”

It’s her way of a thank you, Bellamy knows. He’s not sure if it’s for letting her stay here, or for eating her out a couple hours ago, but he sinks back to defeat and forces a smile. Differences aside for Maisie, heart repaired while she’s in the room. The smile Clarke gives him back is genuine, hopeful, full of promises that he’s ensure what entails. Is it a guarantee she’s going to be a friend as opposed to a co-parent or a plea to be back in his life as something more?

Bellamy’s sure Clarke doesn’t even know herself. And while he appreciates her accountability, there’s still so much left unsaid, so much hurt dancing around in his chest that he’s not sure how to proceed. Or if they can.

Clarke props the spoon up against the pot, crouching down to scoop Maisie into her arms. She places her on the countertop, using her free hand to scoop up a small spoonful of pasta. Maisie’s eyes eagerly follow the food, and Bellamy can’t help the genuine smile that graces his lips. Clarke pretends to bring the spoon to her own lips and Maisie grunts in protest. Her mother breaks out into a grin as a chuckle escapes Bellamy’s lips.

“I’m just teasing,” Clarke assures her daughter. She blows on the pasta, cooling down the access heat before slowly bringing it to Maisie’s mouth. Maisie swallows the penne with a big gulp, and hums in delight. “Is it yummy, love?”

“She’ll eat anything,” Bellamy taunts. “Don’t think you suddenly got good at cooking cause she approves.”

Clarke sticks her tongue out at Bellamy. “You love my pasta, too, you big baby.”

She turns her attention back to Maisie, spoiling her with a couple more spoonful’s of pasta. Bellamy stares up at them from his position on the floor, Maisie eagerly accepting more food from her mother’s hands. She giggles in delight and looks down at Bellamy for approval. He shoots her a toothy grin before Maisie turns back to Clarke, eagerly awaiting more food.

Clarke always glows in his eyes, but being a mother brings her a whole different shine. Her hair, finally dried from the snow and the sweat, cascade in a mess of waves down her back and her skin exudes adoration for their shared creation before them. Her smile reaches her ears, and the laugh that leaves her lips is so melodic Bellamy could melt to the sound. For a moment, he forgets about the broken promises and pleas of nothing.

_I love you, too._

All Bellamy could ever want is this. The three of them, here, on a holiday on every single other day of the year in this house; a family. He doesn’t need everything to be perfect, he just needs them to be here, with him. If he could wish for anything, it would be this, on all three hundred and sixty five days of every single year he has to live.

* * *

_December 24_

_1:02am_

The faint sound of his door creaking open jerks Bellamy awake. He sits up straight in his bed, staring at the doorway to see Clarke, pausing mid-step. She sinks back into herself, biting down on her lip guiltily. Bellamy leans against the headboard, taking in her appearance. She’s rid of his sweaty, and now only the jersey hangs below her hips, along with the white cotton panties she managed to find.

“Clarke,” Bellamy whispers. “Are you okay?”

“Can I sleep here?” Clarke asks, straightening her posture. Bellamy nods, beginning to shift out of the bed, but she steps forward. “No, no. With you.”

Bellamy pauses, not balancing on the edge of the bed. He glances from his empty bed to her, Clarke’s wide, hopeful eyes never something he can say no to, even if he wanted to. He shifts back to the left side of the bed to refrain from falling off, faltering slightly out of pure cowardice. Clarke waits penitently by the doorway for an answer, not testing her boundaries, giving him his space.

He leans over to the other side, flipping open the duvet cover for her. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Clarke’s feet sink into the carpet as she etches closer towards the bed. Bellamy gulps down, trying to avert his gaze from the jersey that keeps riding up her thighs, as if he wasn’t between them earlier that day. He tips his eyes up when he feels the dip in the mattress, Clarke climbing in and tucking herself under the covers. She curls up, pressing her cheek against the pillow, and gazing up at him expectantly.

Bellamy’s throat goes dry, but he offers her a tight lipped smile. He lays back down, noting how Clarke’s eyes never leave him. His heart pounds in his chest, the reminder of having her in this bed accelerating every aspect of his nervous system. He trains his stare the ceiling, memorizing the curve of the popcorn tiles, hyperaware of Clarke just a shift away from him. He feels his heart about to burst, shifting onto his side so his back is facing her, and he closes his eyes, prays to sleep.

He stills when he hears the shifting of the sheets, feels the dip of the mattress. He keeps his eyes closed when he feels her torso against his back, her breath along his neck. A shaky breath escapes his lips when he feels her mouth on his neck, planting the softest kisses that he almost thinks he’s dreaming. And when her arms wrap around his waist, her head nuzzling into his neck, he almost feels at peace – almost.

“Clarke,” Bellamy breathes. “Don’t do this.”

“I want to make you feel good,” Clarke’s voice is sultry in his ear. “You make me feel good.”

_Fuck_. Clarke’s hand travels down the center of his stomach to his half hard cock in his boxers. Her fingers graze over his shaft through the fabric, and he’s never felt weaker than in this moment right here.

Bellamy thinks he should hate Clarke, thinks he has every right to. She left him, continued running when she found out they were having a baby, has been nothing but civil since the birth of their child. He should see this person in his bed as a stranger, and yet, he knows it’s Clarke. He knows Clarke. Her mind and her heart aren’t as connected as they should be, but both of his belong to her. They have since he was a teenager, and in their time apart, that connection has not weakened. Maybe for her, or so he thought, but maybe – maybe this is her way of making it better. She wants to try. And damn, he wants her.

The emptiness Clarke instilled within Bellamy can only be repaired by her, and _fuck_ , he’s so damn stupid for letting her have this hold on him. She could leave him on a dime. But her touch brings back the feeling, reaffirms his devotion to nobody if not her and their daughter. And it may be so sadistic of him, to keep relishing in someone who only wishes to run, but the hurt she causes is so much better than the emptiness he feels when she’s not there. So while he has her, he’s going to take her.

Bellamy swivels around to face her, startling Clarke. Her hand lays on his lower back for a moment, before it travels back around, smoothening over his t-shirt and the fabric of his boxers. He rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily, his eyes half-lidded. She peers up at him, keeps working her hand up and down, her blue eyes making promises he needs to hear from her lips.

“I want this,” Bellamy affirms with a shaky breath. “I want you.”

“I want you, too.” Clarke promises. “Can we figure it all out later?”

He doesn’t say anything, or even nod, just brings his chin forward to kiss her lips. Bellamy knows he’s becoming greedy, the amount of kisses he’s stolen from her lips in the past couple of days hopefully enough to last him a lifetime. He doesn’t know how this is going to end, what’s going to happen when the snow melts and Christmas is over and they’re back to being Bellamy and Clarke with their daughter on weekends and strangers on the weekdays. But for now, as the snow falls outside, they’re wrapped in one another. And that has to be enough, for now.

Clarke deepens the kiss, but tries her best to keep her hand on him, slowly working him up and down until he’s hard in her hand. She pulls down his boxers, and he tries his best to shimmy them down his thighs through the sideways position they’re in. He shivers against her lips as her fingers wrap around the base of him, her bare skin directly on his. Bellamy brings his hand to the back of her head, crushing his lips against hers.

She bites down gently on his lip, “Bellamy. I want to feel you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, princess.” Bellamy captures her lips once more time in a savory kiss before drawing back, letting her straddle him.

Clarke reaches down, stealing a quick kiss from his lips before dragging her mouth down his neck to his torso, past the valley of his thighs. Bellamy props himself up on his forearms, just to be able to watch her as she positions herself at his cock. Her hand finds the base of him, slowly moving up and down his shaft as he dips her head to lick at his balls. He throws his head back against the headboard, the feeling of her lips enclosing around him a feeling of ecstasy that he’ll never get anywhere else.

Her tongue travels up and down his shaft, swirling around him in circular motions, her eyes lifting to meet his. They’re determined, full of fire and lust, but all he can look at her with is pure admiration. She has him memorized like he does her, the two of them knowing one another better than themselves. Bellamy shudders when she gets to the tip, her tongue twirling around teasingly until her lips close around it.

Bellamy reaches his hand out, shakily cupping her cheek, thumb grazing her skin. “Good girl. You can take it, can’t you, princess?”

Clarke never breaks eye contact, humming in agreeance as she leans into his touch. He loves feeling her every way he can, his hand on her cheek, blonde locks grazing his fingertips, her mouth on his cock, eyes peering into him. Bellamy yearns to have her close in other ways, but for now, this is what they have. He’s okay with having her like this, right now, if this is the only way he can have her.

She bobs up and down on his cock, her eyes shifting away from him as she picks up her speed. His heart aches not being able to get a full look at her, especially in the dim lighting of his bedroom with the night sky taunting them from the window. But he can feel her, feels how she prepares herself for him, how she devotes everything to being able to please him. Her tongue swirling around him, her mouth tightening around his cock, everything so that he can come in her mouth.

Bellamy feels himself building rather quickly – and he wants to chalk it up to it being a while, but they both know it’s because of her. He breathes out shakily, and Clarke’s eyes manage to lift, silently asking if she should be ready for him. Fuck. The way she’s looking at him is enough to have him come right there, but he wants this to be as good for her as it is for him. He wants her to be ready.

“I’m going to come, princess,” Bellamy warns her. “Can I come in your pretty, little mouth? Is that alright, baby?”

Clarke nods hurriedly, working her mouth up and down him. He wants to watch her as he comes, but every part of him feels like he’s going to collapse. He manages, cementing his elbows into the mattress as his stomach lurches forward, his climax running through him. Clarke swallows every bit of him in her mouth, with few remnants spilling from her lips.

She’s barely finished swallowing before Bellamy’s leaning over, climax still shuddering through him, and pulls her onto his lap. Clarke settles into his lap just as she gulps him down. His hands come up to cup her cheek, wiping the remnants of his come from the corners of her mouth with his thumb. He follows the outline of her lips, so perfect, just like every part of her, and brings her in for a slow, kiss.

“You make me feels so good,” Bellamy whispers. And it’s true, for the most part. She’s his center, the reason his heart finds a beat. He just wishes it could be of permanence, that they could work towards the forever they promised in their vows. “So, so good.”

* * *

_December 24  
10:41am_

“Mom, I’m not going to be able to make it. What do you want me to do? Force my daughter into the car and drive in the middle of a blizzard?”

Clarke’s voice echoes from the bedroom, sounding throughout the apartment. To her credit, she tried her best to be quieter in the beginning. But Bellamy knows how Clarke’s mother can get very judgmental and extremely persistent, even more so throughout the holidays, so he tries his best to zone out the conversation. Maisie seems to be doing so just fine, sitting contently in her father’s lap while shaking around her stuffed teddy.

Maisie rolls over on her father’s lap, teddy still in clutch. Bellamy watches, an amused smile lifting onto his features as Maisie plops herself across from him. She brings the teddy to her lips in a slobbery kiss, before extending it to Bellamy. She holds it there for a while, eyeing him like he’s supposed to know what to do with it. Her little eyebrows furrow, and she grunts.

“You want me to kiss the teddy?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow. Maisie grunts again. He chuckles lightly, crouching down to press his lips against the non-slobbery area of the teddy. “There. All good?”

Maisie hugs the teddy closer to her, sighing happily. Bellamy’s heart sings, just as the sound of a door closing down the hall disrupts his daughter’s attention. Clarke strides into the living room, exhaustion written over her features. She slicks her hand through her hair, giving a tired smile to Maisie. Bellamy watches as Maisie extends the teddy to her mother, expecting the same chivalry as Bellamy.

“She wants you to give the teddy a kiss,” Bellamy tilts his head to the side, a sing-song tone lacing his voice.

Clarke’s forced smile morphs into an amused grin. She strides over, getting to her knees across from Bellamy. Maisie holds the teddy out proudly for Clarke, as her mother leans forward and presses a kiss to the teddy. Her face scrunches up in disgust, but she tries her best to mask it as she leans back and Maisie’s attention refocuses on her stuffed teddy.

“You get the slobbered up part?” Bellamy smirks.

“A warning would have been nice,” Clarke spits.

He leans back on his palms, surveying over Maisie in the middle of them before looking back up at Clarke. “How’s your mom?”

Clarke shoots him a glare. “I’m sure you heard. Not happy she’s not going to see her only grandchild for her first Christmas.”

“Hey, I almost didn’t see my daughter for her first Christmas. Sucks to suck.”

Bellamy means it as a joke, really, he does. But Clarke’s eyes soften; not to their usual resting pity or regret that he’s become so accustom to. It’s actually a little calming, the softness of her gaze, the understanding in her features as she reflects. He screws his lips shut, feeling bad for having said anything, but Clarke offers him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says. “I didn’t even think about how hard that would be for you.”

“It was the agreement we made,” Bellamy shrugs. “I had her for Thanksgiving.”

“And I was so upset about it,” Clarke laughs, realization dawning. She turns her gaze to Maisie, reaching out to run her hand through the tiny curls atop of their daughter’s head. “I missed her. A lot. I always do, but it’s different on the holidays.”

Maisie scrunches up her neck at her mother’s touch, too preoccupied with the teddy to give any of them attention. She squeezes and grasps at it, it’s white fur turning a yellow as it reflects under the overhead light. Maisie admires the teddy in her grasp the way her parents admire her, eyes full of curiosity and uncertainty but a certain dedication evident in the tightness of her grip. Her darkened eyes zero in on her stuffed teddy, matching curls unmoved in their pattern despite her mother’s touch.

“I always wonder, you know,” Bellamy starts, not taking his eyes off Maisie. “How we got so lucky. To have her.”

“I wonder where we’d be,” Clarke smiles softly, a sad twinge to the downwards corners of her lips. “Without her.”

Bellamy knows. Clarke would be far, untraceable most likely, successfully having started a life without him. And his life would be all the duller; meaningless encounters with meaningless people, he’d still be a janitor, his only real source of contact being Miller on weeknights. Part of him thinks that should make him resentful, that Clarke would bring it up knowing how much further apart they would be.

But when his eyes lift back to hers, she’s already looking at him. The blue of her eyes prod into the darkness of his, and the slight of her smile tells him all. Clarke knows, too. He used to fear that she would disappear from his life without a trace, then was afraid that she only spoke to him because of their daughter. And maybe that was the reality for some time, but he feels a shift in his chest, in the room – and part of that is even scarier. Because this time, he can’t even identify it.

“What do you say we do holidays together from now on?” Clarke suggests, scooping Maisie into her lap. Maisie ignores her as she plants a kiss on the top of her head. “As a family.”

They hadn’t been a family in a long time, if ever. Before Maisie, it was just the two of them, against the world. And now with their daughter, it’s always felt like they were on two separate ends of a spectrum, never finding common ground if not for their child. All he could ever want is to spend the holidays with Maisie and Clarke, and now he has just that. But when the snow melts and Christmas comes over, will the promises fade with it?

Bellamy forces a smile, unable to clear up the cloudiness in his chest. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

* * *

_December 24  
2:11pm_

Maisie throws a tantrum right before her nap, unhappy with the fact that she’s unable to go outside. The blizzard is relentless, coating the city below in an unrecognizable white sheet. She probably wouldn’t even be able to see if they did take her outside to play, not that Maisie understands that one bit. She thrashes against Clarke’s hold, yanks at Bellamy’s hair and sobs so loudly that he knows they’re going to get complaints from neighbors sooner or later.

When Maisie finally does fall asleep, it’s well past her normal schedule and it’s a two man job. Really, Bellamy thinks they should have recruited the rest of the apartment complex to aid them, but they managed to get her down regardless. He and Clarke throw themselves against the couch, heaving heavily and nearly passing out themselves.

“She’s only thrown a tantrum like that once with me before,” Bellamy breathes. “When I couldn’t take her to the park because it was raining.”

“Me, too,” Clarke laughs come out as a hearty breath. “Except this is when I couldn’t get her out of my mother’s pool.”

Bellamy leans his head against the cushion, a tired grin spreading across his face. “At least we know she’s an outdoor girl.”

“She gets that from you.”

“Definitely not you, princess.”

Clarke playfully smacks his chest, but another breathy laugh escapes her lips. Bellamy smirks, a combination of exhaustion and amusement taking up his features. He stares up at the ceiling, reaching up behind to smoothen out his hair that he’s certain Maisie’s pulled chunks out of. He’s relieved to find that majority of his strands of hair are intact, just as Clarke creeps up beside him, starts nuzzling her nose into his neck.

His breath hitches, her soft kisses leaving imprints along his skin. Bellamy’s eyes flutter closed, knowing he’s enjoying having her close way too much. She wraps her arms around his neck, shuffles herself to position in his lap, lips still entrapped on his neck, leading up to the skin behind his ear. Clarke’s teeth graze his earlobe, and the melodic giggle that escapes her lips takes him right back to their happiest days; in high school, in their marriage. It’s a sound he’s missed so dearly, he grips at her hips as if that’ll keep her in his life just a little longer.

Clarke’s lips move to his cheek, trailing up his cheekbone to his temple and then his forehead before dragging down the bridge of his nose. Bellamy tips his head up, eager to meet her lips. She smirks, purposefully drawing back to tease him. He feigns a pout, hope she doesn’t feel his heart rate speed up the further she pulls from him. Grasping at her forearms, he edges her closer, and she falls into him gracefully.

She gives in, meeting his lips with the softest of kisses, it’s like a ghost grazing his lips. Clarke wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his neck and tightening her legs around his torso. Bellamy holds her there, hands sprawled across her back. The thin layer of the jersey she’s wearing does nothing to cover the hardening of her nipples, and her thin, white cotton panties fail to restrict anything. Yet, all he wants to do is hold her like this, have her this close.

They stay like that, for a moment. Bellamy could fall asleep like this, he thinks, just wrapped up in one another with his head on her shoulder. But Clarke is restless, pulling away to capture his lips in a more fiery kiss. Her hands come up to cup his cheeks, their lips smoothening together in an undeniable sync.

Clarke grinds down on his crotch, hands dropping from his cheeks to his belt buckle. Bellamy immediately misses the warmth from her hands, and while he’s sure he’ll find them elsewhere, all he wants is her like this. He never tears his lips away from her, gently grabbing her wrists and pausing her motions to intertwine their fingers.

“Not right now, baby.” Bellamy murmurs against her lips. “I just want this.”

“Okay,” Clarke mumbles back. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, princess.”

Bellamy lays them down carefully, making sure their lips never disconnect. She lays against his chest, the weight of her the most comforting feeling of all, their frenzied kiss slowing into lazy motions. He doesn’t mind, just likes the feeling of her lips on his.

His chest tightens, a sudden overwhelming wave of anxiety flooding him. He tries to hold her tighter, as if she’s slipping away, but that only increases the panic rising within him. Unable to shake it, he draws back, trying to pass it off as taking a breath. But Bellamy takes a breath, and then another, and air only comes to him in spurts.

“Bellamy?” Clarke reaches up to cup his cheek, fingers ghosting against his cheekbone. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m–” Bellamy coughs, trying to clear out his lungs. “Just tired.”

Clarke’s eyebrows furrow together. “Don’t lie to me.”

_Please don’t leave me_.

“Really, Clarke. I’m okay.”

“Bellamy–”

“The roads will be clear by Boxing Day. Are you going to go home?”

Clarke sits up, straddling his lap, confusion written all over her face. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

Bellamy balances himself on his forearms, peering up at her. “I’m just wondering.”

“Bellamy, what the hell is going on? Why are you acting so weird?”

“I’m not, fuck, Clarke. Just want to know if you’re going to take my daughter and run–”

“Take her and run? Do you seriously think I’d do that? After all of this?”

“All of what? A couple kisses here and there?”

Clarke gulps. Her hands retract to her lap, lightly caressing the low part of Bellamy’s stomach. Her gaze drops, fingers drawing unidentifiable patterns along his shirt. The panic is his chest morphs into an undeniable pinch of regret. He reaches out, running his hands along her forearms and bringing her forward. She’s a bit more hesitant, but accepts a peck to her lips, one he feels so silly for having taken for granted just seconds ago.

“Let’s talk about it, okay?” Bellamy suggests. “We’ll figure this out.”

She looks at him, and he already knows what she’s going to say. “We will. But I’m kind of tired now. Can we sleep for a bit?”

His heart sinks to the pits of his stomach. “Yeah, of course, baby.”

Clarke leans further down, resting her head against his chest. She can definitely feel the erratic beat of his heart, probably knows that he’s not going to be sleeping anytime soon. Wrapping her arms around him anyways, he listens to the sigh that escapes from her lips and the waves of her breathing. He pulls his arms around him, and the panic in his chest resumes, clouding his mind and any sort of thinking as the woman he loves drifts off to sleep in his arms.

* * *

_December 24  
11:58pm_

Maisie crawls around Bellamy’s bedroom, wide awake and extra alert. She loves being in Bellamy’s room, and normally, he does, too. He adores the way she finds the excitement in exploring, even in a space she’s been accustom to basically her whole life. But now, as they near midnight, hours past her bedtime, it’s definitely lost its appeal.

Clarke is practically delusional, scrubbing her hand over her face to keep her awake while Bellamy tries to tire their daughter out on the floor. He chases after her, on all fours, but all she does is squeal and giggle, like it’s the middle of the day. At one point, Clarke gets down there to join them, but it just riles Maisie up even more. She even tries to hoist herself up on Bellamy’s bed, falling flat on her bottom more than once and then trying again.

“It’s because she took her nap late,” Clarke groans, collapsing against the bed. Her legs dangle off the bed, and Maisie instantly attaches to her leg, yanking at her sweatpants to hoist her up. “She’s never going to sleep.”

“She will,” Bellamy assures. He grabs Maisie by the hips and places her on the bed. “We just have to get creative.”

“We can’t bring her outside. The snow is still crazy.”

Bellamy leans over and checks the clock on his nightstand as Maisie crawls on top of Clarke’s stomach. “Early Christmas gift?”

“How is that going to tire her out? She’s just going to get more excited about the toy.”

“We had a less than Christmas-y, Christmas Eve. An early gift won’t kill her. Or us.”

Clarke shoots him a look, but Bellamy only smiles. He presses a kiss to her temple before darting out of the room. He doesn’t have much – no Christmas tree or decorations. He didn’t think he’d have Maisie for Christmas, much less Clarke. But what type of father would he be if he didn’t get his only child a Christmas gift? He was going to give it to Clarke so she could gift it to Maisie on the actual day, but now it’s here and so are they, and he’s more than eager.

After all, he’s spending Christmas with his family. That’s all he could have ever asked for, all he did ask for just a couple days ago. The dreariness clouding his chest comes and goes, usually with the thought of the two of them leaving. He’s not sure how long any of this will last, but for now, they’re both here, on the earliest hours of Christmas day, and he’s more grateful than anything.

He scavenges through his closet, past the piles of shoes and array of coats, all the way to the very back. Maisie’s an explorer, and she’s got into more than a few of his things, so he actually had to hide this gift well. He pulls out a colorful polka dot gift bag, a little crumpled from sitting in the closet for over two weeks. By the time he walks back into the room, Maisie’s already winding down, laying against her mother’s chest as Clarke leans against the headboard.

Maisie sits up straight at the sight of the polka dot gift bag. She claps, squealing in delight, like she knows it’s for her. Even if she didn’t, it surely would have to be now, that way that her arms outstretch to grasp it. Bellamy laughs, settling on the opposite side of the bed and checking the alarm clock just one more time. Just a minute after midnight.

He places the gift bag just an inch away from her. “Merry first Christmas, love.”

Clarke grins, suddenly just as giddy as her co-parent. Maisie lurches herself forward, roughly grabbing the gift bag and pulling at the tissue. The mess litters Bellamy’s bed, but it’s worth it to see the light on her face when she pulls out a stuffed reindeer, clean and still shining its original color, unlike her dreadful teddy.

Maisie inspects it, like she’s weary of its existence. Bellamy almost panics, because yes, she’s an infant, but he’s going to be insulted if she doesn’t like his gift. But because she’s a baby, Maisie adores absolutely anything she can squish between her fingers. She bursts into a fit of giggles, hugging the plush reindeer to her before showing it to Clarke.

“Wow,” Clarke marvels, a cheesy grin on her face. “A new stuffed animal?”

“That teddy was becoming atrocious to look at,” Bellamy smirks.

“You know she won’t let you get rid of it. This is only the start to her collection.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes playfully. He nudges the gift bag forward, eyeing Clarke. “There’s more in there. For you.”

“For me?” Clarke raises her eyebrows.

“Technically for Maisie. But it’s an ode to you.”

Clarke narrows her eyes challengingly, but hesitantly picks up the strings of the gift bag and brings it closer to her. Maisie grunts in protest, Clarke sighing drearily as she holds it out to Maisie to discover. Bellamy sits back on the foot of the bed, watching as Maisie abandons the reindeer and dives further into the gift bag. Maisie pulls out yet another stuffed toy, courtesy of Bellamy, but this one comes in the form of a princess doll.

As Maisie admires the pink dress on the stuffed toy, Clarke throws her head back in a laugh. “With the blonde hair and everything.”

“Hey, if I know her mommy is a princess, she’s got to know, too.”

Clarke stares back at him, a twinkle in her eye that makes his heart instantly melt. He smiles at her, all the words left unsaid threatening to spill from his mouth right there and then. But he refrains, if not for their daughter marveling at her new collection of stuffed toys, for the fear of Clarke’s reaction. He wants to frame this moment, keep it still in time, live in it forever. And if he speaks, there’s a threat to that peace, to the family he’s managed to create amidst all the dysfunctional and heartbreak.

Maisie drifts off less than twenty minutes later, hugging her two new plushies to her. Bellamy carefully lays her in the middle of the bed, ensures she has enough space to sprawl out as he lays on one end of her, Clarke on the other. He gazes down at Maisie, chest rising and falling peacefully on the early hours of her first Christmas, Clarke laying right beside her. He wants nothing other than this, for the rest of his life.

Bellamy’s not sure if he can go back to the life he had a couple days ago. Trading Maisie off every weekend, him and Clarke returning to small talk. This is his family, just like this was his marriage. And maybe he let that slip through his fingers, but he refuses to let that happen this time. This is his second chance, his saving grace.

Clarke’s eyes threaten to shut, but he notes how she tries to keep her gaze on him. She smiles softly, trying to assure him that she’s awake. Bellamy returns her smile, reaches out across Maisie to gently caress her cheek. Clarke leans into his touch, trying to scoot as close as she can without disrupting Maisie in the middle of them.

“Sleep, princess.” Bellamy urges her. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

“You’re always here for me,” Clarke’s voice almost comes out as a whisper. Her smile diminishes into a faint frown. “I don’t know how I got so lucky with you.”

Bellamy’s heart crackles a little more. “I think the same about you. But you got me. Forever.”

He’s aware that Clarke knows she has him forever. Aside from Maisie, his heart belongs to her and that’s something that’s been ingrained in her head since high school. It’s not him that either of them worry about. And as Clarke closes her eyes, without any more words slipping past her lips, Bellamy feels his heart beat in the palm of her hands.

* * *

_December 25  
11:31am_

The tail end of the three day blizzard left a beautiful sheet of sparkling, white snow across the city. Snow mounts on top of one another, undisturbed and cemented to the ground. The parking lot of the apartment complex is covered is a hefty feet of snow, with cars nearly unrecognizable. Luckily, the snow’s stopped falling for now, and Maisie can frolic in the snow for as long as her tiny heart desires. Or until she tires herself out.

They’ve been out since right after breakfast, and Maisie doesn’t look to be letting up anytime soon. She’s always been an active baby, but Bellamy thinks having all three of them together is what’s really keeping her so amped up. He wonders if her tiny, little mind thinks about it, too; that if she rests even for a second, all of this could go away and she’s back to switching between parents weekly. He hopes she never has to think like that, has to dread coming and going from one parent to another. If he could memorialize this for her and for him, he would without a second thought.

For now, however, Maisie’s only thought is snow. Clarke leaps in after her as Bellamy attempts to build some sort of fort, pushing her hands and knees into the snow right behind Maisie. Their daughter finds it difficult to crawl in the snow, but Clarke scoops her up, glides her along, his two favorite girls giggling amidst the cold, winter air.

Bellamy packs snow on top of the other, glancing over at Clarke and their daughter. His fort is coming along nicely, if he says so himself, but it’s nothing compared to the sight before him. Clarke is a spectacular mother, not just in her love for Maisie, but in her adoration for her. The only person who loves their daughter just as much as he does is Clarke, and both of them have placed her on a pedestal since they day she was born, and probably will for years to come.

“Look what daddy’s making,” Clarke marvels, stomping through the snow with Maisie in her arms. “You want to go inside?”

There’s barely an inside, just a shell of a fort with walls that are a quarter of a meter tall, but Maisie’s already outstretching her arms like she understood Clarke’s question. Bellamy laughs, delight filling his chest as he accepts Maisie from Clarke, stepping into the fort and crouching down to set her in the middle. Maisie barely waits for her feet to touch the snow, launching out of her father’s grasp and planting herself into the snow.

Clarke climbs in as Maisie gets settled, cuddling up beside Bellamy for warmth. She leans her head on his shoulder, looks at him with rosy cheeks and pink lips. “Merry Christmas, Bellamy.”

Bellamy pecks her lips, and he feels at home. “Merry Christmas, princess.”

Clarke wraps her hands around his arm, gazing down at Maisie. Bellamy’s only staring at her, though, trying to think of the words to get her to stay. All his pleas and promises have ghosted through her ears before, and if it happens another time, he’s not sure what he’s going to do.

Maisie throws herself on his knee, stretching her arms out to him. The glimmer in her eye and excitement in her smile steal his attention from Clarke as he gazes down at their shared creation sparkling before him. 

_Enjoy this while you have it_ , Bellamy reminds himself. He scoops Maisie into his embrace, and holds her and Clarke tight, just for the moment that he can. He savors it, all six seconds of it, before Maisie launches herself back into the snow.

* * *

_December 25  
1:47pm  
  
_

Bellamy slowly strides into the living room from the kitchen, careful not to spill the two scolding hot mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. Clarke curls up on the couch, and despite how cold she must be, is only sporting his jersey. She grins, ear to ear, when she sees him enter the living room, outstretching her hand to retrieve her mug. He carefully hands it to her, planting a kiss on her cheek, before cuddling up next to her.

“Thank you,” Clarke dips her tongue into the liquid and winces.

“You have to wait a bit,” Bellamy chuckles, throwing his arm around her.

“I’m impatient.”

He can’t help himself, Bellamy presses another kiss to her cheek, nuzzles his nose into her neck. She giggles, the low buzz of the television screen the only sound in the background. With Maisie asleep, it’s just the two of them for now. And it’s Christmas, and fuck, Bellamy hasn’t been this fucking happy in a while. He has his family; his daughter, the love of his life, and all he wants to do is soak up all that it brings while he can.

_While he can_. It’s still something he has to bring up to Clarke, the conversation never coming to fruition in these past twenty four hours. He’s just been enjoying their company, selfishly so, and maybe it’s time he just do that. Be the selfish one for once.

Bellamy takes a sip of his hot chocolate, scolding on his tongue, but he swallows it down with a gulp anyways. His eyes graze over the television screen, vaguely aware that the newscaster is on the screen. Clarke’s more interested in it than he is, so he at least tries to pay attention. The weatherman appears on the screen, flashy smile and seemingly, with some good news.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” the weatherman announces with a boisterous laughs. “Most of the roads and major highways will be cleared by tonight. Right in time for everyone’s Boxing Day sales.”

“Oh, thank God.” Clarke blurts out with a laugh. Bellamy snaps his head towards her, heart already breaking again. “My mom was going to riot if she couldn’t take advantage of those sales.”

Bellamy tries to play it off, clear his throat and force a smile. “Are you going to go with her?”

“Definitely not. I can’t handle her. Nor do I want to bring Maisie into that. I’m going to spend all of tomorrow soaking in a nice, hot bath.”

“You can do that here. Tub’s big enough for the both of us.”

“Oh, trust me, I know, but I got to head home. I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

Bellamy refrains from allowing every single part of him to tremble, but he feels himself shutting down before Clarke can even finish her sentence. He, somehow, manages to reach across the coffee table and set his mug down without spilling any of its remnants, and finds the strength in him to stand to his feet. Clarke watches him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, still curled up with her mug on the couch.

“When would you come back?” Bellamy prods, trying to keep his voice level as he stares down at her.

“Well, probably next week, for New Year’s.” Clarke tilts her head to the side. “Are we not doing that anymore?”

All Bellamy wants is that, and just forever more. He sighs shakily, bowing his head, trying to ground himself. He hears the press of glass against glass, knows Clarke’s probably set aside her own mug. The shuffle of her feet against the carpet, and suddenly her hands are on his forearms, trying to comfort him.

“Bellamy, hey,” Clarke tries to sound cheery. “It’s going to be different. We’re friends now, right? We’re–”

“We’re supposed to be a family,” Bellamy spits out, lifting his head to look at her, his vision blurred from the tears collecting in his eyes.

“We _are_. That hasn’t changed.”

“We’re a family when you want to be. On holidays, special occasions, hopefully for Maisie’s first birthday. But on every other day, we’re divorced, not speaking–”

Clarke drops her hands from his forearms, takes a step back. “We’ve been divorced for over a year and a half, Bellamy. That hasn’t changed either.”

Maybe he has no right to feel betrayed. These past couple of days, all that’s been going through his mind is this – exactly this moment. That eventually, the snow would melt, and Christmas would come to an end, and she’d leave. They’d go back to exactly what they were seventy two hours ago, strangers with a child, and his heart would break and Clarke would be perfectly fine. There’s no reason for him to feel betrayed, he saw this coming.

But it hurts all the same. Hurts worse, actually. The fact that Bellamy knew this is exactly how things would end, and he so stupidly didn’t call it out sooner. He let himself be wrapped up in everything he knew they could be, the three of them, if only Clarke _wanted it_. And despite what she said all those days ago, this remains true; she never wants him enough to stay.

“I’m such an idiot.” Bellamy’s laughing now, because he has no clue what else to do. “To think that any of this meant something to you.”

“Don’t say that, Bellamy, I want you, I want our family,” Clarke insists, stepping forward.

Bellamy draws back. “But you want you more. You can’t be a mother, and a wife, and you all at the same time.”

Clarke blinks, her eyes flashing with tears that she tries to absorb. She shakes her head, lips screwed together like she’s forming some argument that she know just won’t work on him. Bellamy laughs, again, bitter and resentful and fuck, he’s so _fucking stupid_. To think that the woman he’s loved since they were teenagers would magically fall back in love with him, that she would be able to promise herself to him like the day they stood in that damn courtroom and vowed to spend their lives together.

“That’s why you haven’t wanted to talk about it,” Bellamy rambles on. “Because I was fucking right. You were going to take Maisie and pretend none of this happened–”

“You said it yourself, Bellamy. A couple of kisses here and there are nothing!” Clarke hisses, a tear spilling over her eyelid. “It doesn’t fix the years of a broken marriage.”

“Because you don’t even want to try. You say you’re not happy, and you run, you don’t want to put any work to the family we spend years building. I was never enough for you.”

“How could you say that, Bellamy? You’re all I ever wanted! That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, but it also doesn’t mean our marriage is something that could have been saved.”

“How would you know? You didn’t even try. Is it because I’m no longer a football captain, I’m a fucking janitor, and that’s just too low for a curator–”

“Do not project your insecurities on me, Bellamy. You’ve been more than enough for me, _always_. It’s me, I’ve told you so many times, it’s _me_ –”

“It’s always about you! Not about me, or us, or even about Maisie–”

“Lower your voice–”

A sharp cry erupts through the tiny apartment they once shared, piercing through their ears and silencing their shouts. They stand there, teary eyed and staring as their daughter’s cries seep through the halls and reality settles back in. These past couple of days, Bellamy thinks now, have been nothing more than a blip in reality; Christmas brings hope and miracles, but not for regular people like them, certainly not for adults.

They’re not teenagers anymore. And that’s something Bellamy’s always known, but maybe not absorbed to its fullest extent. Wishing on a star means nothing, not even in the spirit of the holidays. When December 26 rolls around, he’ll be a janitor, and she’ll be back at the gallery and the only time he sees her is when he’s permitted to see their daughter. That’s what this is, that’s what they are, and that’s what it’s always been.

“I’ll get her,” Bellamy forces himself to say.

Clarke softens, the tension shattering into pieces before them. “Bellamy, please–”

“Figure out what you want, Clarke. Because we both know it’s not me.”

Bellamy tears his gaze away from him, follows the source of the cries to his daughter’s room. The end of Maisie’s crib is decorated with her weltering teddy and two new stuffed toys, none of which she is paying any attention to as she thrashes her limbs about, sobbing for her parents. Looking at his daughter always brings him some sort of his peace, his saving grace, his center, the reason he’s able to continue going on. And now, she’s crying beneath him and all he wants to do is burst into tears with her.

He gently scoops her up from the crib, holds her in his arms as close to his chest as he possibly can. Maisie’s cries subside rather quickly, soothed just by his touch. Bellamy presumes he’s the same way, assuaged by Clarke’s touch and empty promises, ignoring his fears and the reality of what this is just to have this fantasy for a little longer.

Maisie fists her hands through his shirt, rubbing her cheek against it to hold him closer. Bellamy’s not sure what the next three hundred and sixty five days bring, all he knows is that Maisie will be there, and he’ll always be there for her. If this is Clarke’s idea of a family, them separated and sharing their daughter, it’s a reality he’s going to have to get used to. No matter how much his heart breaks in the process.

* * *

_December 25  
10:18pm_

The night sky hands above Bellamy, absent of stars. Unless there’s some that he just can’t see, covered by the thickening clouds. All Bellamy can really see is the sheet of snow beneath his balcony, roads finally plowed and prepared for driving. He should feel relieved that Clarke’s gone tomorrow, no more false promises to rely on. But his daughter goes with her, and it’s almost worse than spending the holidays alone. He much would have preferred that this year.

A creak from his sliding door disrupts his thoughts. His head snaps towards the sliding door, Clarke peaking her head out. When she catches his eye, she steps fully out into the balcony, dressed up in her coat and mittens and a shy smile on her face. He swallows thickly, trying to bring some moisture back to his dry throat but Clarke’s managed to steal that from him, too. Bellamy looks away from him, staring at the starless sky.

“Hey,” Clarke’s voice is low, despite Maisie being fast asleep all the way inside.

Bellamy grips the handle of the balcony tighter. “Hey.”

He feels Clarke brush up beside him, but keeps his eyes out on the city. It’s almost like an avalanche has covered the place, left no room for survivors or anyone emerging unscathed. Bellamy almost laughs at the absurdity of it, how just a couple days and a couple centimeters of snow could have corrupted his life so drastically.

There’s honks of cars and the faintest of shouts sounding from the city below them, but all that Bellamy can register is his and Clarke’s breathing. Doesn’t help that he can see it, too, the frost from their breaths folding into the air before them. The cold air sweeps through his face and curls, icing his skin, but it isn’t as painful as having Clarke so close, and so out of reach.

“I told you I didn’t know what I want–” Clarke starts.

Bellamy closes his eyes. “Clarke, it’s over.”

“Not to me. It’s never been over, not you and I.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I told you I didn’t know what I wanted. I still don’t.”

Bellamy chuckles darkly. “Thanks for the update.”

Clarke’s hand finds Bellamy’s, secured in woolen mittens, but the heat from her touch seeps through the fabric, ingrains into his skin. His breath hitches, and he looks at her for the first time that night. Her cheeks are already flushed pink from the cold, but her eyes are stained red. He’s certain his are, too.

“I love you, more than anything. And I know I’ve had a shitty way of showing it,” Clarke speaks slow, trying to smile. “But you can’t tell me you’re not just as scared as I am, Bellamy.”

“I’m scared this is always how it’s going to be, Clarke. Me, hopelessly in love with someone who could pack up and walk away without much thought. Someone who claims to love me.”

“I don’t know who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be. We’re only twenty two.”

“Where are you going with this, Clarke? Who are you helping here?”

“Us, I want us. I know that’s what I want. You, Maisie, our family, _us_. But I don’t even know how to find me, I certainly don’t know how to fix us. And that’s scary, Bellamy.”

Bellamy turns to face her, the wind rustling his hair and his heart on the edge of the railing before them. “Why can’t we do that together? What happened to us growing together?”

Clarke’s hand reaches up, mitten warming his cheek. He much rather feel her, bare skin on bare skin, but he’s not certain of any of this anymore. All he knows is that he wants his family, Clarke, Maisie, both of them, with him. Clarke may not know who she is without him, but neither does he. They’ve been apart for a year and a half, and neither of them have figured it out on their own. It’s not supposed to be them separately. It’s supposed to be the two of them – figuring it out together.

“I would take it all back if I could,” Clarke whispers, hand dropping back to her side. “I’d stay. I should have stayed. And now, I fucked everything up. And I don’t know if I can ever come back from that. Or if I deserve to.”

Bellamy steps closer to her. “What do you want, Clarke?”

Clarke closes her eyes. “What I want is not what–”

“What do you _want_ ,Clarke?”

“You.”

And that’s all Bellamy needs to hear before his lips are on hers. Their lips are terribly cold from the winter, but the warmth that seeps through his body makes it worth it. Clarke wraps her hands around his neck, deepening her mouth against his, desperately clutching at him, eager to have him closer. Bellamy’s arms wrap around her waist, and this is how it’s supposed to be. This is what they’re supposed to do.

“I love you, Bellamy.” Clarke murmurs, “I love you. And I want you.”

“You’ve always had me,” Bellamy assures her.

“I’m sorry. God, Bellamy, I’m so fucking sorry–”

Bellamy silences her with his mouth against hers. In one fluid motion, he scoops her into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. He swiftly opens the sliding door and steps inside to welcome the heat of his apartment, closing it securely behind them and forbidding the cold from entering. Clarke’s already taking her mittens off behind his head, throwing them God knows where as he lays her down on the bed.

He rids of his coat and his shirt, the mittens flying off next. He needs his bare hands on her. Thankfully, Clarke has the same idea, coat off. She’s still sporting his sweater, his jersey peeking out from underneath. She sits up, and Bellamy helps her rid of the sweater. His sweatpants come off of her next, and he follows suit with his own. They’re both just scrambling, desperate for one another after all this fucking time. Bellamy’s left in his boxers, Clarke in his jersey and cotton panties.

Clarke stares up at him, big blue eyes wide and waiting for his move. Bellamy tries to calm himself, leveling with her gaze. He leans down, pressing his lip against hers in a slow, savory kiss. He tugs at the hem of his high school football jersey, the one that’s been hugging her these past couple of days. He wants it gone. He wants any barrier between the two of them, _gone_.

Bellamy hikes the jersey over her head, throws it somewhere he hopes he’ll never find it. That part in his life in over, and maybe the Bellamy and Clarke that they were then is, too. But he’ll always have present Clarke, the one he’s meant to spend the rest of his life with; grow old with. This is the start of them, of who they’re supposed to be. And if they can both accept that now, he knows they’re going to be okay.

Slowly, Bellamy lowers her onto the bed, grinding his crotch against her center. Clarke moans into his mouth, wrapping her hands back around the back of his neck. He hooks his fingers under her cotton panties, lets them fall to her ankles – does the same with his own boxers. Pressing his body against hers, feeling the warmth exude off the two of them, morphing into one.

“I can’t beg you to stay,” Bellamy murmurs against her lips. “Not again.”

“You don’t need to,” Clarke promises. “I’m here. Forever. I’m working on this, I’m here.”

Bellamy presses his lips against hers, hard. Clarke whimpers into him, arching her back off the mattress to meet him. He sinks his hand down in between them, adjusting his cock at the head of her entrance. She aches for him, he knows the way she chants his name into his mouth. He gently glides his teeth along her bottom lip, a silent promise he intends to keep. He slips inside her, cementing himself in the warmth of her.

He starts slow, getting a feel for being inside of her again. His eyes flicker to meet Clarke’s, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. He reaches his hand out, cupping her cheek and slowly easing out of her.

“Baby,” he says slowly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, fuck, yes.” Clarke promises, never taking her eyes off him. “I just–I really fucking missed you.”

Bellamy’s heart bursts, and he crashes his lips against hers. He slowly builds up his pace, making sure she can get adjusted to him while also enjoying every inch of him that he has to offer. When her legs lock around his torso, he quickens, snaking his hand in between the two of them to rub tight circles around her clit.

“Come with me,” Bellamy urges her, feeling himself building up.

“I will, I will,” Clarke babbles. “I love you. Fuck, Bellamy, _I love you_ –”

“I love you, princess.” Bellamy vows. “Only you. It’s only going to be you and me.”

The moment he feels her pulsate around his cock, he lets himself go inside of her. His eyes flutter open to meet hers, shining and grateful and all he can think about how this time it’s forever. He rests his forehead against hers, whispers it all over again. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you_. And she chants it back, doesn’t miss a beat.

As the curl up in his bed, limbs entangled with one another, he sings it into her ear. Their naked bodies are the only heat from one another that they need, and he thanks the Universe, or whatever Christmas miracle, that he was able to have this holiday with his family. That the day was to end like this, their few days of bliss before being thrown back into the real world; this time together.

* * *

_December 26  
7:52am_

The faint sound of mumbling wakes Bellamy up that morning. He’s groggy, his eyes still ridden with sleep, but the endless babbling sounds just become increasingly louder as he straightens in bed. He yawns, stretching out before him, gazing at the empty bed he lays in. His heart sinks, when his eyes travel to the foot of the bed; his sweater, sweatpants and jersey perfectly folded before him.

Bellamy leaps up from bed, not giving a fuck about the neatly folded clothes. He throws on the sweatpants and grabs the sweater before striding out the door. The babbling gets increasingly louder as he throws the sweater over his head, and he hopes he’s just caught them, prays he’s not too late this time–

Maisie comes into view first, buckled into her highchair. She’s babbling about God knows what, sounds that mean nothing leaving her lips. In one hand, she has the stuffed princess toy, and the other, that God forsaken teddy. The reindeer is on the floor, at the stand of the highchair, and although Bellamy’s pride should be wounded, when Maisie catches sight of him, her grin stretches from ear to ear.

“Hi, love,” Bellamy breathes out a sigh of relief. He drops the sweater down to his hips before walking over, planting a grateful kiss on his daughter’s cheek. He runs a hand over her curls, and looks up to see Clarke at the stove. He breaks out into his own grin, “Morning, princess.”

Clarke flips over a pancake on the grill as Bellamy sneaks up behind her, trailing kisses up and down her neck. She giggles, leaning her head against his shoulder to welcome a kiss on her lips. “Morning, baby.”

Bellamy balances his head on her shoulder, feeling his heart beat finally rest at a normal rate. His daughter is here, the love of his life is here, and it’s after Christmas. It’s day one of three hundred and sixty five, and everybody is here. Overwhelmed, Bellamy presses another kiss to Clarke’s shoulder, thanks whatever star he wished on that night to have them all here with him.

“I meant what I said, Bellamy.” Clarke whispers, angling her body around to wrap her arms around his waist. “I love you. I want you, I want our family. But we can’t find fixes overnight.”

He rests his forehead against hers. “All I want is to find fixes with you. No matter how long it takes. As long as we do it together.”

Clarke brings her hand up to cup his cheek, her lips brushing against his. She repeats it again, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Bellamy tries to bring her in for another kiss, when Maisie interrupts from behind them. She squeals, eager to get her parents attention. A laugh escapes her parents lips, both of them swiveling around to stare at Maisie.

“You want kisses, too?” Bellamy coos, waltzing over to smother their daughter in endless kisses.

Maisie giggles, puckering her lips to meet her own parents kisses. Clarke comes up beside them just as Bellamy stretches his face out to her, prepared for his turn. Maisie leans forward, and he prepares for another one her slobbery, open mouth kisses when instead, a sharp edge sinks into his cheek.

“Ow, what the–” Bellamy leans back, holding his scarred cheek. And of course, Maisie laughs, big and open and wide, a shiny, little tooth peeking out of her gums. “Ah! A tooth!”

Clarke leans forward, squinting. After a moment, her eyes widen. “A tooth! She is teething!”

Bellamy’s so giddy, he unbuckles their daughter from her high chair, swooping her into his arms and thrusting her into the air. “That’s why she wants to eat everything! No snow eating for you!”

Clarke bends over in a laugh, and really, he has no idea why he’s so fucking exciting about a tooth, either. It means a lot more restless nights, especially now with the pain of teething. But he’s just so damn excited to be able to see it, to be able to have those restless nights together as opposed to sporadically or alone. He hugs Maisie to him, glances at Clarke and gives her another peck on the lips. He stands in the kitchen of his apartment, with his two favorite girls, his family all under one roof for the holiday season, and rest of the days to come.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter! @virgohotspot!
> 
> Thanks for reading!:)


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